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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78363-0.txt b/78363-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8cab744 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4538 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78363 *** + + + + + MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH ❧ + + + + + MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH + BY HJALMAR SÖDERBERG + TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH + BY CHARLES WHARTON + STORK ❧ WITH DRAWINGS + BY THEODORE NADEJEN ❧ + + [Illustration: Bird on stylized tree] + + HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS + NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXXX + + + + + B-E + MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH · COPYRIGHT + 1930, BY HARPER & BROTHERS · PRINTED + IN THE U. S. A. _FIRST EDITION_ + + + + + TO + A. G. H. SPIERS + CRITICAL FRIEND + FRIENDLY CRITIC + THIS VOLUME IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED + BY THE TRANSLATOR + + + + + [Illustration: Abstract decoration] + + + + +PREFACE + + +_It is a sad thought that everyone cannot enjoy Söderberg, that this +master of delicate and incisive realism, this prince of humorists, +is--for Anglo-Saxons, at least--an acquired taste. But it is +well to face at the outset the fact that Söderberg is a European +Continental, an Anatole France of Sweden. To those who believe that +a man is unvirile or at least anæmic if he refuses to believe in +human perfectibility this attitude toward life will seem barren and +depressing, one to encourage discouragement. How much pleasanter to +feel with Pippa, not only at 7_ +A.M.+ _on a May morning, but at all +hours and seasons, that «all’s right with the world»! To insinuate the +contrary is to give sanction to those doubts which, if they overtake +even the most confident of us at unguarded moments, should all the more +be repressed. What is culture if it is not sweetness and light? Listen +to Söderberg: «Why all this optimism when not one of the old problems +is solved?» And again, one of his characters affirms, «I believe in the +lust of the flesh and the incurable loneliness of the soul.»_ + +_We read fiction for pleasure. What does this new Swedish novelist +offer in compensation for a somewhat despondent view of life? He +himself rather hesitates to tell us and in this very hesitation we +may, if the faculty be in us, discern one of his chief attractions. +Söderberg is reticent because he wishes to present the truth as he sees +it without exaggeration and without prejudice. He colors his picture +neither with the golden glow of the untroubled believer nor with the +red zeal of the revolutionary. He is honest to such a degree that he +will not stress his own honesty. On the contrary, he doubts his very +doubt: «How could I, a boy of sixteen, be right and all my elders +and betters wrong?» And again in_ +Martin Birck+, _«he was not quite +certain that truth in itself could produce happiness, but history +had taught him that illusion created unhappiness and crime.» And yet +all the more from this unobtrusiveness we divine the intellectual +honesty of the skeptic, which bursts out only once in the present +novel: «Would a man never come who did not sing, but spoke, and spoke +plainly!» Such a man has the right to «paint the thing as he sees it,» +to revalue the time-honored beliefs and customs of the past in the +light of his own experience._ + +_We may, I think, trust in Söderberg’s fidelity to his vision as +in that of few living writers. He collects his data carefully and +transmits them simply. In that there is always stimulus to a reader who +appreciates how difficult it is to do. But he might do all this and be +no more than a good photographer._ + +_As we follow the everyday run of events in_ +Martin Birck+, _we may at +first be impressed with their perfect verisimilitude and yet incline to +class the author as unoriginal. In that respect, though probably in no +other, the prose of Söderberg resembles the poetry of Wordsworth. Few +readers will progress more than a page or two without that sense of the +significant in the commonplace which is the very soul of originality. +Söderberg has followed the famous counsel of Flaubert to De Maupassant: +«Look at an object until you have seen in it everything that anyone +else can see, and then look until you perceive what no one else has +seen!» Rarely has any prose been fuller of implications--emotional, +psychological, moral--than Söderberg’s. To re-read him is invariably +to be surprised at all one has missed before. One passes through life +with him as one might walk through a meadow with a great naturalist +or stroll through a city at night with Whistler. The trivial is +clothed with meaning, the habitual is touched with magic. The world of +Söderberg lives; it lives in beauty._ + +_And as one grows more and more conscious of the author’s pregnance +in matter, one is equally delighted with the perfect consonance of +his manner. He gives not only the thing in itself, but the feel of +the thing, the overtone. His curious felicity is never startling or +precious, it is simply adequate. How far this may be recaptured in +translation may of course be an open question. Here at least is an +attempt from the short story_ +Margot+: + + _It was a cool night in the early part of October. The moon was up; + a cold, moist wind was blowing. The big buildings on Blasieholm + formed a dark mass, whose broken and irregular edge seemed to + be catching at the wisps of cloud that drove forward against a + deep-blue background. The still, heavy water of Nybro Inlet + mirrored a broad glittering moonpath in oily rings, and along the + wharves the lumber sloops raised a thin and motionless forest + of masts and tackle. In the upper air was haste and tumult; the + clouds hunted each other from west to east, till over the woods + of Djurgården they congested into a low black wall. It was as if + Heaven were breaking camp for a journey, for a flight._ + +_The reader of_ +Martin Birck+ _will find any number of similar +passages, in description, character-drawing and the power of the author +to express his own reactions on life and art_. + +_What manner of man is this quiet interpreter of the life about him? +Hjalmar Söderberg was born in Stockholm, 1869. The outward tenor of +his way has been uneventful. After trying journalism in a provincial +town he tired of «serving caviare to the Bœotians» and returned to +his native city, the background of nearly all his work. He first +achieved distinction in the «Storiettes,» miniature stories usually +told in the first person and based on some casual incident of daily +life. In this form he is unsurpassed._ +Martin Birck+, _his first +novel, published in 1907, was partly inspired by «Niels Lyhne,» the +work of his elder Danish contemporary, J. P. Jacobsen, but was mainly +autobiographical. Söderberg was also influenced by the modern French +novelists, especially Flaubert, Maupassant and Anatole France. The last +named he translated. He wrote two other novels, «Dr. Glas» and «The +Serious Game,» and two plays, «Gertrud» and «The Hour of Fate,» besides +numerous collections of short stories. His last long book is «Jehovah’s +Fire,» an historico-religious narrative. Some early poems and a small +sheaf of criticism complete the tally of his rather moderate output. Of +recent years he has been living in Copenhagen. He has never married._ + +_How little this dry recital of facts has to do with the real case in +point! The genius of Söderberg is inherent in the temperament of the +man. In appearance he is homely, stoutish, and suave, a bit Bohemian +but decidedly a gentleman. Quiet, observant, unpretentious, and rather +indolent, he gives an impression of infinite leisure and tolerance +which is largely borne out by his writing. His mind is a rich, +seemingly passive soil, in which small events take root and grow, as it +were, without an effort on his part. Therein lies the unique charm of +his stories; their unforced, organic quality._ + +_But in the simplicity of Söderberg there is infinite subtlety. He lets +life speak through him because he realizes that in the last analysis +nothing speaks as persuasively as life. In his presentation there is +a skill beyond praise. With all his naturalism and tranquillity of +style, he gives us great moments, moments of profound insight, of +wistful loveliness, of quaint and surprising humor. After all, things +do not choose themselves or arrange themselves in right relation on +the canvas; they only seem to do so. Without obtruding his personality +Söderberg speaks to the mind and emotions of his audience in no +uncertain terms._ + +_What does he give us finally? First, perhaps, the delight of seeing +nature and humanity clearly and the greater delight of entering +imaginatively into the essence of both. His truth has the beauty of +understanding. We find that life does not need to be idealized to be +beautiful; it needs only to be realized. And as a corollary he gives us +a sympathy in this manifestation which is not unlike that of Whitman, +for it is the sympathy of acceptance. There is a tone of sadness, +sometimes of almost tragic depth, in the knowledge of «what man has +made of man,» and with it a smile of forgiveness. What we understand we +pardon. Men and women are lovable in spite of, largely no doubt because +of, their mistakes._ + +_But also men and women are irresistibly funny. Söderberg has almost +exactly the mood of Jaques in «As You Like It.» But whereas Jaques is +dry, Söderberg is sly, with an ingenuous slyness that never, as with +Sterne, slips off into a leer. How he enjoys letting his people amuse +us, in watching with us their self-important gestures, the eternal +passions that fade away in a month or a year, their curious delusions +about fame and money and respectability! If these people could see +themselves! And as we look, we may perhaps be a little mortified to +see_ our_selves. How foolishly we have wasted our energies and annoyed +those about us, for what? Perhaps we shall be a little more lenient to +the faults of others from now on. The laughter which Söderberg evokes +is thoughtful laughter._ + +_Are we then given no positive impulse, is there no meaning in life, +nothing worth striving for? «Perhaps not,» says Söderberg. And yet, +pessimist though he is, he has a reticent pride of his own. He cannot, +we feel, tell a lie, cannot force anyone in his stories to do or think +anything that is not in character. Furthermore, he adumbrates through +the philosophy of Martin the ideal of writing «so that each and all who +really cared to could understand him.» And, like most of Söderberg’s +simple statements, that means considerably more than appears on the +surface._ + +_Enough, perhaps more than enough, has been said to indicate the +mood for best enjoying_ +Martin Birck+. _To call further attention +to details would only tend to spoil the pleasure of those attempered +to appreciate it. I must return to the original statement that the +reader’s reaction to it will be peculiarly personal. For myself, I +differ almost completely from the author in his conclusions about life, +I object strongly to his rather supine attitude, yet I admire and love +him. I find him as brilliant as the modern French masters, and much +more kindly. He has given me more than have nine-tenths of the worthy +authors with whom I agree. There is in him a strict sense of truth, a +tenderness, a humor which put him definitely on the side of the angels. +He will annoy, will scandalize, many excellent people, but I am afraid +I am not sorry that he should. He has been called the_ enfant terrible +_of Swedish literature. Perhaps we have been taking him too seriously; +no doubt he himself will think so. After all, there is something +perennially fascinating about a naughty child._ + + _C. W. S._ + + + + +THE OLD STREET ❧ + + + + +--I-- + + +Martin Birck was a little child, who lay in his bed and dreamed. + +It was twilight of a summer evening, a green and tranquil twilight, +and Martin went holding his mother’s hand through a big and marvelous +garden where the shadows lay dark in the recesses of the walks. On both +sides grew strange blue and red flowers, swaying back and forth in the +wind on their slender stalks. He went along holding his mother’s hand, +looking at the flowers in wonder and thinking of nothing. «You must +pick only the blue ones; the red ones are poisonous,» said his mother. +Then he let go her hand and stopped to pick a flower for her; it was +a big blue flower he wanted to pick, as it nodded heavily, poised on +its stem. Such a marvelous flower! He looked at it and smelled it. +And again he looked at it with big astonished eyes; it wasn’t blue, +after all, but red. It was quite red! And such an ugly, poisonous red! +He threw the naughty flower on the ground and trampled on it as on +a dangerous animal. But then, when he turned around, his mother was +gone. «Mamma,» he cried, «where are you? Where are you? Why are you +hiding from me?» Martin ran a little way down the walk, but he saw no +one and he was near to weeping. The walk was silent and empty, and it +was getting darker and darker. At last he heard a voice quite near: +«Here I am, Martin. Don’t you see me?» But Martin saw nothing. «Here +I am all the time. Why don’t you come?» Now Martin understood: behind +the lilac bush, that was where the voice came from. Why hadn’t he +realized that at once? He ran there and peeped; he was sure his mother +had hidden there. But behind the bush stood Franz from the Long Row, +making an ugly face with his thick, raw-looking lips, till he finished +by sticking out his tongue as far as he could. And such a tongue as +he had; it got longer and longer; there was no end to it; and it was +covered with little yellowish-green blisters. + +Franz was a little rowdy who lived in the «Long Row» slantwise across +the street. The Sunday before he had spat on Martin’s new brown jacket +and called him «stuck-up.» + +Martin wanted to run away, but stood as if rooted to the earth. He +felt his legs grow numb beneath him. Then the garden and the flowers +and the trees had vanished and he was standing alone with Franz in a +dark corner of the yard at home by the ash barrel. He tried to scream, +but his throat was constricted.... + + + + +--II-- + + +But when he woke, his mother was standing by the bed with a clean white +shirt in her hand and saying, «Up with you, little sleepyhead; Maria +is off to school already. Don’t you remember that the pear tree in the +yard is to be stripped today? You must hurry if you want to be there.» + +Martin’s mother had blue eyes and brown hair, and at that time the +glance of her eyes was still bright and smiling. She laid the shirt on +the bed, nodded to him, and went out. + +Maria was Martin’s big sister. She was nine. She went to school and +already knew what many things were in French. + +But Martin still had slumber in his eyes and the medley of the dream in +his head, so that he couldn’t bring himself to get up. + +The curtain was drawn back, and the sun shone straight into the room. +The door to the kitchen stood ajar. Lotta was laughing at the kitchen +window while she chatted with some one; it was sure to be Heggbom, the +porter. Finally Heggbom began to sing down in the yard with his rummy +voice. + + «If I had King Solomon’s treasure chest + With money in heaps and masses, + I’d off to Turkey and never I’d rest + Till I’d bought me a hundred lasses.» + +«What would you do with them all,» inquired Lotta; «you that can’t +manage even your own wife?» + +Martin couldn’t hear what Heggbom answered, but Lotta began to laugh +with all her lungs. «Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?» she said. + +Now the porter’s wife had come into the yard, it sounded as if she was +throwing out a tub of dish-water. With that she began to scold Heggbom, +and Lotta as well. But Lotta only laughed and slammed the window. + +Martin lay half awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. There was +a crack that was just like Mrs. Heggbom if one looked at it right. + +The clock struck nine in the neighboring church, and when it had +stopped striking, the clock in the hall began. Martin jumped out of bed +and ran to the window to see if the pears were still on the tree. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: Children in tree] + +The pear tree in the yard was beloved by the children and cats. It was +old and large, and many of its boughs were already dry and dead, but +the others still furnished blossoms and greenery every spring and fruit +every autumn. + +Heggbom’s boys were sitting up in the tree, throwing down pears after +having first stuffed their pockets full, while below the other children +fought for every pear that fell from the tree. In the midst of the +troop stood Mrs. Lundgren, broad of build and loud of voice, trying +to enforce a fair distribution, but no one paid any attention to her. +A little way off stood little Ida Dupont, with great eyes, her hands +behind her back, not venturing into the turmoil. Mrs. Lundgren did not +get any pears for her because she was ill-disposed toward Mr. Dupont, +who was a violinist in the royal orchestra. + +Martin became eager; he threw on his clothes in a hurry and came down +by the steps. + +Lotta screamed after him, «Aren’t you going to wash and comb your hair +before----» + +But Martin was in the yard by this time. Mrs. Lundgren at once took him +under her protection. + +«Throw down a pear to Martin, John. Hold up your cap, little boy, and +you shall have a pear.» + +A pear fell into the cap. But now Martin couldn’t find his penknife to +peel the pear. + +«Give me the pear; I’ll peel it for you,» said Mrs. Lundgren. + +With that she took the pear, bit into it with her big yellow teeth, +and tore off a piece of the skin. Martin opened his eyes very wide and +grew red in the face. Now he didn’t want to have any pear at all. + +Mr. Dupont lay at his window in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe, +with a red skull-cap on his head. He now leaned out and laughed. Mrs. +Lundgren got angry. + +«That’s a spoiled child,» she said. + +John now triumphantly held up the last pear, and the children hurrahed +and shouted, but he stuffed it into his trousers pocket. But then +Willie found still another, and this was the very last. He caught sight +of Ida Dupont standing with tears in her eyes over by the wall, and +at that he gallantly tossed his pear into her apron. Then there was +another hurrah; the pear tree was stripped. + +Now Mrs. Heggbom came out: + +«Lord in heaven what a clatter, and Heggbom lying at his death! Down +out of the tree with you, you little ragamuffins!» + +Heggbom had been sick in bed awhile ago, and his wife’s imagination +often turned back to that comparatively happy time. + +The boys had come down from the tree. Their mother took John by +the hair and Willie by the ear to lead them in. But Mrs. Lundgren +felt somewhat huffed; she had to a certain extent presided over +the tumult. Furthermore, she enjoyed scolding and therefore did not +miss the opportunity of showing Mrs. Heggbom with some sharpness the +unsuitability of making such a disturbance. The latter let go her boys +so as to set her arms akimbo, and there was a big set-to. Listeners +streamed up, and all the kitchen windows were opened wide. + +At last a voice broke through the quarreling: «Sh! The Secretary!» + +Everything became quiet; Secretary Oldhusen had the largest floor +and was the finest tenant of the house. He was dressed in a long +tight-fitting frock coat and carried under his arm a worn leather +portfolio. When he had come down the steps he stood still and took a +pinch of snuff. Thereupon he walked slowly out through the gate with +the preoccupied and troubled mien of a statesman. + +Martin and Ida slipped out into the street hand in hand. They ventured +on for a few steps beyond the gate, then they stood in the street and +blinked at the sun. + +The street was lined with wooden houses and tile roofs and green +trees. The house where Martin lived was the only large stone house on +the street. Long Row, diagonally across from it, lay in shadow; a +low, dirt-gray range of houses. Only really poor people lived there, +Martin’s mother said. Only scum, said Mrs. Lundgren. At the dye-house a +little farther down the street there was no hurrying; the dyer stood at +his gate in slippers and white linen jacket and chatted with his wife +in the warehouse. Even outside the corner tavern things were quiet. A +brewery wagon had stopped in front of it, and the horse stood with his +forefeet tied, eating oats out of a nosebag that hung on his muzzle. + +The clock in the near-by church struck ten. + +Ida pointed down the street. «There comes the old goat woman.» + +The goat woman came with her two goats; one she led with a cord, the +other was free. The Secretary’s little granddaughter had whooping-cough +and drank goat’s milk. + +«Yes, and there comes the ragman.» + +The ragman sidled in through the gate with his pack on his back and his +greasy stick. People said he had seen better days. + +Two drunken men came out of the tavern and reeled along the street +arm in arm. A policeman in white linen trousers walked up and down, a +copy of the _Fatherland_ sticking out of his hip pocket. A flock of +chickens trailed out from the yard of Long Row, the cock at their head. +The policeman stopped, took half a roll out of his pocket, and began to +feed them. + +«What shall we do?» asked Ida. + +«I don’t know,» replied Martin. + +He looked very much at a loss. + +«Would you like to have my pear?» + +Ida took the pear out of her pocket and held it under Martin’s nose. It +looked very tempting. + +«We can share,» proposed Martin. + +«Yes, that’s so, we can share.» + +«But I have no knife to cut it with.» + +«That doesn’t matter. You bite first and then I will.» + +Martin bit, and Ida bit. Martin forgot he had wanted the pear peeled. + +Now somebody called for Martin, and the next moment grandmother came +out and took him by the hand. + +«What in Heaven’s name are you thinking of today? Aren’t you going to +comb your hair and wash and eat your breakfast? The mischief’s in the +boy.» + +Grandmother was pretending to be cross, but Martin only laughed. + +In the gateway they met Heggbom; he was walking a bit unsteadily. He +avoided them by a long tack and removed his cap very politely while he +spluttered away at his song: + + «I’d off to Turkey and never I’d rest + Till I’d bought me a hundred lasses.» + +The yard had grown quiet. Mrs. Heggbom’s fat red cat lay on the ash +barrel purring with half-closed eyes, and below the rats stole in and +out. + + + + +--III-- + + +On a gray October morning Martin received permission from his mother to +go down and play with Ida Dupont. + +Mr. Dupont had two small rooms, one flight up. At this time of day he +was away at rehearsal, so Martin and Ida were alone. + +It was a dark and somber day. The inner room lay in semi-twilight, with +a high Venetian blind in front of the window. When one pushed aside a +corner of the blind, one could see between two gray house gables a part +of the great black church cupola. «Bing bong!» went the bells. + +Ida showed Martin a peep-show box with tinted pictures. There were +white castles and gardens with colored lanterns in long gleaming rows, +yellow and red and blue. There were strange cities with churches and +bridges, and steamboats and big ships on a wide river. And there were +halls illuminated with radiant candelabra, but what looked like lights +were just little holes made with pins. It all looked so big and alive +when one saw it in the box. It almost moved; there was surely something +magical about it. + +«I got that from mamma,» declared Ida. + +«But where is your mamma?» + +«She’s away.» + +Martin looked surprised. + +«How--away?» + +«She has gone off with a strange gentleman. But sometimes she writes me +letters that papa reads to me, and sometimes I get pretty things from +her that she sends.» + +Martin became very inquisitive. He wanted to learn more but didn’t know +just how he ought to ask. + +However, Ida now caught Martin by both shoulders and looked very +impressive. + +«Do you know what we’ll do now?» she asked. «We’ll dress up.» + +She pulled out a bureau drawer and began to take out red bodices of +satin, silk, and rep with a multitude of ribbons and rosettes; silk +gloves, silk stockings, and long veils of lace--pink, blue, and white. + +«I got this from mamma, too, when she was in the ballet.» + +She took a thin, light blue veil with silver spangles and draped it +around Martin’s head. Then he was given a red bodice, a shawl of silver +gauze, and a white skirt. + +«My, but you look funny!» said Ida. «Just like a girl.» + +Martin looked at himself in the glass and they both roared with +laughter. + +«Come here,» said Ida, «and I’ll put mustaches on you.» + +Martin didn’t think mustaches would fit, if he was to be a girl. But +Ida didn’t mind about that; she blackened a cork over a candle and +traced big black mustaches on Martin, then she put black eyebrows on +herself. After that they looked into the mirror again and laughed. + +«It’s so handsome to have black eyebrows,» said Ida. «Don’t you think +I’m handsome?» + +«Uhm,» said Martin. + +Ida was full of resources. + +«If you’ll be terribly nice, we’ll have a banquet.» + +She went to a cupboard and hunted out a half-filled bottle of wine and +a couple of green glasses. Then she laid the cloth on a toilet table +and filled the glasses. + +Martin’s eyes grew big. + +«Does your papa let you?» + +«Oh, yes. He lets me do whatever I like. My papa is nice. Is your papa +nice?» + +«Yes,» answered Martin. + +They clinked glasses and drank. It was a sweet and pleasant wine, and +its dark red shone splendidly in the green glasses. + +Outside it had begun to snow. There were great heavy flakes; the window +sill was already white. It was the first snowfall, and the church bells +rang in the black cupola: «Bing bong, bing bong!» Martin and Ida knelt +on a chair with their arms around each other’s necks and their noses +pressed against the pane. + +But Ida poured out more wine and clinked glasses with Martin. Then she +took down an old violin from the wall and began to play, and while she +played she danced and swayed, wearing a white veil. It sounded very +queer the way Ida played the violin. Martin held his ears, laughed, +sung, and screamed. But then Martin began to notice a creepy feeling +down his back, and he recalled that his mother had said Ida Dupont had +fleas. + +... Martin was in the sleeping alcove, peeping about. Farthest away in +the semi-darkness was an image of the madonna behind two half-burned +wax candles, and below hung a crucifix. + +Martin stared in astonishment. + +«What’s that?» he asked. + +Ida became very solemn and answered in a low voice, nearly whispering, +«That is our religion.» + +Mr. Dupont was a Catholic. + +«Wait,» said Ida, «sit over there and be quiet, and I’ll teach you our +religion.» + +Ida swathed herself in pink tulle with gold spangles. Then she advanced +and lighted the candles under the madonna, two calm bright flames. On +a little stand below the crucifix she lighted a pastille of incense. +In long blue clouds the incense curled from under the curtain of the +alcove, and the air grew heavy with a strong spicy fragrance. + +The madonna glowed like a theatre queen with red, blue, and gold, and +the stars on her mantle blinked and sparkled in the light of the wax +candles. + +Martin shivered with delight. + +But Ida fell on her knees before the madonna. Her thick, dark-red +plaits glowed like bright copper in the candlelight. She muttered +something which Martin did not understand, and made strange gestures +with her hands. + +«What’s that?» inquired Martin; «why do you act so?» + +«Tst! That is our religion.» + +And Ida stayed on in the alcove. Her large black eyes had a sparkling +glow. But Martin had an odd feeling of heaviness in the head. + +«Come here and join in,» bade Ida. «Don’t you think it’s beautiful?» + +Martin sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to imitate Ida’s +gestures. But soon he began to nod. His head was so heavy, so heavy. + +When Mr. Dupont came home, the two children were lying asleep on the +bed. The wax candles had burned out. + + + + +--IV-- + + +Autumn advanced over the earth, and in the city where Martin lived +the houses were gray and black with rain and smoke, and the days grew +shorter. + +But when the afternoon came and the dusk fell, Martin Birck’s father +often sat by the fire and looked at the embers. He was no longer young. +He had a smooth-shaven face with sharply marked features, like an +actor’s or a priest’s; and he had a way of laughing to himself without +saying anything, which inspired respect and a certain feeling of +insecurity. But when he laughed in this way his laugh was not taken for +weakness or imbecility by his fellows, for there was nothing satiric in +his temperament; he was merely laughing at an anecdote he had read in +the morning paper, or at a couple of dogs that had barked at the lions +around Charles XIII’s statue when he had passed through the square at +noon on his way home from the office. For Martin Birck’s father was +a government clerk. Although his salary was not large and he had no +private means, he knew how to arrange things so that he and his family +could lead a comparatively carefree existence, for his taste was +given only to innocent and simple pleasures, and no feeling of vanity +drove him to seek association with people who were above him in rank +or fortune. He was the son of a mechanic, and when he chanced to think +about his lot in life, he did not compare it with that of his superiors +or his wealthy comrades but recalled instead the poor home from which +he had come. He decided then that he was lucky and only wished that +the luck he had should never be dimmed. He was fond of his wife and +children and loved nothing in the world as much as his home. When he +was free from his official duties he liked to work with his hands. He +mended broken furniture; he could in an emergency even repair the old +kitchen clock, which had flowers painted on its face and great brass +weights on chains. He also manufactured funny and ingenious playthings +for his children and neat little ornaments for his wife on her +birthday. Among these was a little temple of white cardboard. It was +adorned with narrow gold borders, and behind a semicircle of slender +columns was a mirror, which seemed to double the number of the pillars. +A spiral staircase led to the top of the temple, which was surrounded +by a balustrade of marbled paper, the staircase being also of cardboard +covered with marble; but in the bottom stair was a little drawer which +could be pulled out. In this drawer Martin’s mother found every year on +her birthday a folded banknote or a little piece of jewelry. + +He also loved music and song. He liked to sing «Gluntar» with an old +student comrade, Uncle Abraham, who sometimes came to visit him, and he +could improvise on the piano and play by ear various pieces from his +favorite operas. + +But he seldom read anything except his paper. + + * * * * * + +Martin Birck’s mother, when twilight fell, often sat at the piano and +sang to her own accompaniment. She had the sweetest of voices. The +songs she sang were such as no one sings any more. At these times +Martin and Maria would stand behind her stool and listen entranced; +sometimes they tried to join in. There was a song about a soldier +treasuring a canteen from which he had given a dying prince a drink +on the field of battle. «’Twas from that His Highness drank,» was the +refrain. And there was another song about a shepherdess who was tending +her flock in a defile among the Alps. Suddenly she heard the roar +of an avalanche and hurried to her charges: «Run fast, run fast, my +lambs!» As Martin’s mother sang, her hands glided over the yellowed +keys of the instrument. The strings had a brittle, glassy sound, and +the pedals sighed and groaned. A string was broken in the bass, and it +would buzz now and again. + +[Illustration: Woman with flowers] + +There was a sense of loneliness when she had stopped singing. + +Martin was drifting here and there. The room seemed to grow larger and +more empty when twilight came. Finally he turned to grandmother, who +was sitting by the window reading the Stockholm _Journal_. + +«Tell us a story, please, grandmother,» Martin begged. + +But grandmother didn’t know any new stories, and the old ones Martin +had heard many times before. Grandmother continued to read the paper +with her glasses far down on her nose. + +«Lord deliver us,» she suddenly exclaimed, looking up from the paper, +«did you see there’s a Miss Oldhusen has died?» + +«No, is she dead?» remarked Martin’s father. + +«Do you suppose she was a sister of the Secretary?» + +«Goodness, no; she was his aunt,» said grandmother. «Her name was +Pella, Pella Oldhusen. I remember her very well, I met her at Vaxholm. +A plaguy smart and amusing woman she was, but she was a kleptomaniac. +Her acquaintances used to say, ‹Be careful, my dear, and don’t leave +anything around loose this evening; Pella Oldhusen’s coming!› There was +a girl she took up. When the girl was to be got ready for her first +communion, Miss Oldhusen stole her old housekeeper’s linen underskirts +that hung in the same wardrobe with her own clothes and had them made +up for the girl. It’s God’s own truth; I heard it from a lady that +knew all about her and the whole family. ‹Look here, Miss Oldhusen,› +the housekeeper said to her, for she had been with her many years +and knew her peculiarities; ‹look here, Miss Oldhusen, there’s been +thieves in the wardrobe! And the mischief’s in it, they’ve stolen all +my underskirts, but not yours, though they were hanging side by side.› +‹Could anyone imagine such rascals?› said Pella. ‹That’s frightfully +annoying, but what can I do about it?› Just the same she gave the +housekeeper money for new linen a while afterward, for she was well off +and not stingy neither; but the girl went to the blessed Lord’s Supper +in the stolen underskirts.» + +Martin and Maria listened with wide-open mouths. Grandmother had told a +story, after all. Of such stories she knew plenty. + + * * * * * + +Father had lighted a cigar and pushed his chair nearer the fire. He now +motioned to Martin and Maria: «Come, children, now we’ll play.» + +The blaze had almost burned out. Father broke apart two or three +empty match boxes and built out of the fragments a house away deep +in the porcelain stove. He put in a lot of matches as pillars and +beams and lastly twisted up a bit of stiff paper; that was a tower. At +the top of the twist he cut a hole for a chimney. All this was now a +stately castle like the old Stockholm castles in Dahlberg’s _Swedish +Monuments_. When it was done, father set fire to all the corners. + +It hissed and sputtered and burned. + +«Look--just look how it’s burning!--now the farthest corner is +catching--now the eastern gate’s on fire, now it’s falling!--and the +tower’s burning, the tower’s tumbling----» + +«Now it’s over.» + +«Again, papa,» begged Martin. «Oh, again! Just once more!» + +«No, not just once more,» said father; «it’s no fun the second time.» + +Martin begged and implored. But father went over to the piano and +stroked his wife’s hair. + +Martin remained sitting in front of the fire. His cheeks burned but +he couldn’t tear himself away. It flamed and glowed so finely away in +there. It glimmered and glowed and burned. + +Finally grandmother came, shut the damper, and put down the slats. Then +Martin went to the window. + +The sun was gone long ago. It had cleared a while, but murky cloud +masses were driving along in broken lines over the thin, glassy blue of +the sky. Long Row lay in deep twilight. The lindens and cherry trees +of the garden were stripped of leaves, and here and there a light was +already gleaming in a window from out the dark net of boughs. Down on +the street the lamplighter went about his task; he was old and bent, +and had a leather cap which came far down over his forehead. Now he +came to the lamp just in front of the window on the opposite side of +the street; when he had lighted it, the whole room brightened. The +white lace curtains outlined their broken pattern on the ceiling and +walls, while the calla lilies and fuchsias painted fantastic shadows. + +It grew darker and darker. + +One could see so far up above--far off over the low buildings of the +old suburb with its wooden houses and gardens. One could see Humlegård +Park with the roof of the rotunda between the old naked lindens. And +farthest off in the west rose a gray outline, the Observatory on its +hill. + +The deep and empty blue of the October heavens became still more deep +and still more empty. Toward the west it was suffused with a red that +looked dirty with mist and soot. + +Martin traced outlines with his finger on the pane, which had begun to +be damp. + +«Will it soon be Christmas, grandma?» + +«Oh, not for a good bit, child.» + +Martin stood a long while with his nose pressed against the pane +staring at the sky, a melancholy twilight sky with clouds of pale red +and gray. + + + + +--V-- + + +But when the lamp was lighted and they sat around the table, each with +his own work or book or paper, Martin went off and sat in a corner. For +he had suddenly become sad without knowing why. There he sat in the +dark, staring in at the circle of yellow light in which the others sat +and talked, while he felt himself outside, abandoned and forgotten. + +It did not help that Maria hunted out an old volume of _Near and Far_ +to show him Garibaldi and the war in Poland and Emperor Napoleon III +with his pointed mustaches; he had seen them all many times. Nor did +it help that she gave him a piece of paper and taught him to fold it +into the shape of a salt-cellar, a crow, or a catamaran; for, though he +did not know it, Martin only longed for some one to say or do something +that would make him cry. It was therefore he sat moody and silent, +listening to the rain that whipped against the window, for it had begun +to rain again, and the wind shook the glass. + +What was that? Did he suddenly hear father say to mother: «Perhaps +you’re right that we ought to try to sell the piano and buy a pianino +on instalment. It goes out of tune in a couple of weeks, and a pianino +would be prettier.» + +Martin gave a start at the words «sell the piano.» He had no clear idea +of what a pianino was, but he didn’t believe it could be a real piano; +he pictured it rather as something that was worked with a handle. He +didn’t believe any other instrument could sound as beautiful as their +piano. He loved every dent and every crack in the red mahogany frame, +for he himself had made most of them, and he remembered almost every +key from its special color. Sell the piano! To his ears it sounded like +something impossible. It was almost as if he had heard his parents +calmly sitting and talking about selling grandmother and buying an +aunt instead. + +Martin began to cry before he knew it. + +«Mamma,» said Maria, «Martin’s crying.» + +«What are you crying for, Martin?» his mother asked. + +Martin only sobbed. + +«He’s tired and sleepy,» declared grandmother. «He’d better go to bed.» + + * * * * * + +While Martin, still sobbing, made the rounds to say good night, Lotta +came in with the tea-tray. She had a very solemn expression as she +said, «I’m sorry to have to tell you that Heggbom is dead.» + +Everything became silent in the room. Martin stopped crying. + +Grandmother clasped her hands together: «Well, and has he really passed +away? Has it come that suddenly?... Glory be! and has he passed away? +Ah, ’twas the brandy!... But it was for the best that he should die, +though ’twill be hard for the missus; he was the porter, anyway, and +maintained his wife and children.» + +«He died just at seven,» said Lotta. + +But when no one said anything she went out into the kitchen again. + +«It might be a good idea to send out a list to the neighbors and start +a little subscription,» said mother. + +Martin was sent to bed. His mother sat at the side of his bed and said +prayers with him. He was let off with «God Who hast us in Thy care,» +because he was so tired. Otherwise he used to say «Our Father» and +«Lord, let Thy blessing rest upon us» besides. + + * * * * * + +Martin lay awake a long time listening to the rain as it plashed +against the window, for he was not at all sleepy; he had only said +so to get out of the long prayers that he didn’t understand. It +is impossible for a little child to associate any idea with such +expressions as «hallowed be Thy name» or «Thy kingdom come.» He lay +thinking about Heggbom and wondering if he could get to heaven. He +always smelled of brandy. + +Martin was afraid of the dark. When Lotta came in with a lighted candle +to fix something in the room, he asked her to let the candle stay. + +«You must sleep, Martin,» said Lotta. «Heggbom will come and bite you +if you don’t.» + +With that she went out and took the candle. + +Martin began to cry afresh. The wind whistled in the window chinks, +every now and then a gate was shut with a bang, and a dog howled +outside. Before mother drew the curtains Martin thought there was a red +glow in the sky. Perhaps there was a fire in South Stockholm.... + +There was turmoil and clamor down on the street. Drunken men coming out +of the tavern--blows and screams. Heavy steps on the pavement, some one +running and some one pursuing--and a cry of «Police, police!» + +Martin drew the covers over his head and cried himself to sleep. + + + + +--VI-- + + +White winter came with sleigh bells and snow and ice-flowers on the +windowpane. «They are the dead summer flowers come back again,» said +Martin’s mother. Evergreen forests out in the country came from the +darkness and solitude into the city streets and squares, and when the +Christmas bells rang in the holy day, there stood in Martin’s home a +dark and timid fir which smelt of the woods, till evening came and it +stood a-glitter with candles, white candles and colored candles, and +was covered with winter apples and sugar-plums with mottoes which were +so stupid that even Martin and Maria could see how stupid they were. +All the glory of Christmas passed--it was like turning the page of a +picture-book--and the star of New Year’s Eve was burning across the +white roofs, and people said to each other, «Good night, and thanks for +the year!» With a shivering sensation Martin thought of the line of +gray winter days that were waiting, to which he could see no ending, +for it was interminably long till summer, and still longer till next +Christmas. + +New Year’s morning he was waked while it was still dark to go to early +service. Half asleep he scrambled through the snow by the side of his +parents, and as they came around the corner, there stood the church +like a giant lantern shining out across the white square where people +were crawling in across the snow from all directions. Within the church +was the organ’s roar and singing and many shining candles, and Martin +felt happy and good and thought this was just the right way to begin +the new year; and when the minister began to preach, he went straight +to sleep. But when he woke up, the pale hue of dawn was shining in +through the windows in the cupola and his mother roused him with, «Now +we’ll go home and drink our coffee.» + +So then they went home, their hearts full of the most beautiful +intentions, for Martin understood without telling that it was this sort +of thing the minister had preached about. Later in the morning Martin +and Maria were sent around on the New Year’s visits to Uncle Jan and +Aunt Louisa and other uncles and aunts, where they were given cakes and +wine and sugar-plums from the Christmas trees. But at Uncle Abraham’s +there was no Christmas tree, for he was a widower and had no children +but lived alone with an old housekeeper. Uncle Abraham was a doctor and +had often cured Martin and Maria of measles and scarlatina and pains +in the chest. He had a black beard and a long crooked nose, for he was +a Jew. He had also a parrot that could swear in French, and a black +tomcat. The cat was named Kolmodin and he was the cleverest cat in the +world, for when he was outside the office door and wanted to get in, +he didn’t mew as other cats do, but got up on his hind feet, caught his +claws in the bell-cord, and pulled it hard. This year when Martin and +Maria came to wish Uncle Abraham a Happy New Year, he was sitting alone +with his bottle of wine on the table playing chess with himself. + +The room was large and half dark and full of books. Outside the snow +was falling in great flakes. Uncle Abraham stuffed their pockets full +of goodies, made the parrot swear in French, and was very cordial; +but he didn’t say much, and in front of the fire which glowed in the +porcelain stove sat the cat Kolmodin staring gloomily at his master. +Martin and Maria stood silent and looked at each other with a feeling +of oppression. For they had more than once heard their parents say that +Uncle Abraham was not a happy man and that he never was really cheerful. + + + + +--VII-- + + +So now it was the new year. The almanac which Martin had given his +father for Christmas had a red cover, whereas the old one had been +blue. Martin also found to his surprise and disappointment that this +was the only difference he could see between the new year and the old, +that the days passed as they had passed before with ringing of bells +and snow and a somber sky, with weariness of the old games and the old +stories, and with the longing to be big. He longed for that time but +feared it too. For his mother had often pointed at the ragman who had +seen better days and said that if Martin wouldn’t eat his porridge or +his beer-soup and otherwise be a good and obedient boy, he would come +to be just such a ragman when he was big. When he heard his mother +talk so, he would feel a tightening of the chest and would see himself +slinking in through the gate at dusk with a pack on his back and poking +in the ash barrel with a black stick, while father and mother and +sister and grandmother were sitting together around the lamp as before. +For it never occurred to him to think that his home could be broken up +and dispersed. + +[Illustration: Boy reading at table] + +Snow fell, a great deal of snow. The drifts grew, and it became +sparklingly cold. Martin had to keep indoors with his alphabet book and +multiplication tables, with his color-box and jumping-jacks and all +splendid things--already faded--which Christmas had left behind. Among +the jumping-jacks there was one called the Red Turk which he was fonder +of than the others, because Uncle Abraham, who had given it to him, had +said it was the jolliest jumping-jack in all the world. «You see,» he +had said one evening, «in itself it is neither amusing nor remarkable +that an old pasteboard man kicks about when one pulls the strings. But +the Red Turk is no common pasteboard man; he can think and choose the +same as we. And when you jerk the strings and he begins to prance, he +says to himself: ‹I am a being with free will, I kick just as I want +to and exclusively for my own entertainment. Hoho! there’s nothing +so delightful as to kick.› But when you stop jerking the string, he +decides that he is tired and says to himself: ‹To the deuce with the +kicking! The finest thing there is is to hang on a hook on the wall +and stay entirely still.› Yes, he is the jolliest jumping-jack in the +world.» + +Martin didn’t understand much of this, but he understood that the Red +Turk was amusing and set greater store by him than ever. + + * * * * * + +So the days passed, and with Twelfth Night began small family parties +with stripping of Christmas trees and shadow games and doll theaters +and magic lanterns with colored pictures on a ghostly white sheet. On +the way home the stars sparkled, and father pointed to the heaven and +said, «That’s the Milky Way, and there is the Dipper.» + + + + +--VIII-- + + +But one morning when Martin awoke he saw that the heavens shone with +a brighter blue than they had for a long time and that there was a +dripping from the eaves and the naked branches of the pear tree. And +while he was sitting up in bed looking out at the shining blue, Maria +came in with a branch that seemed to blossom in a hundred colors; but +it was not flowers--it was tinted feathers. She flicked him with the +branch and danced and sang that it was Shrove Tuesday and she had a +holiday from school, hurrah! And there were to be buns with almond +icing for dinner. + +Then they took the feathers off the branch and dressed up in them and +played Indians and white men, but they were both Indians. + +But mother took the switch and set it in the window in a jug filled +with water in the full sunlight. The room faced the east and this +was the morning sun. And lo and behold! it wasn’t many days before +brown-and-greenish buds came out here and there on the twigs, they +swelled and grew larger, until one day they had broken out and changed +into frail light-green leaves; the whole branch had become verdant, and +it was spring. + + * * * * * + +One afternoon a beam of sunlight fell into the hall which faced the +west. + +«Look at the sun, children,» said mother. «That’s our first afternoon +sun this year.» + +The sunbeam fell on the polished glass of the candelabra, where it +broke and strewed rainbow-colored patches all over the room on the +furniture and wall paper. Just then father passed through the hall and +set the three-sided bits of glass in motion with a slight blow of his +hand. There was a tumultuous dance of the colored patches around the +walls, a dance as of fluttering butterflies. Martin and Maria began a +chase after them. They ran till they were flushed and hot, striking +their hands against the walls, and when they saw a patch on their hand +instead of on the wall paper, they screamed with delight, «Now I’ve got +it!» + +But in the next second it glided away, the sunbeam paled, and the +butterflies, weary of fluttering and shining, departed--Martin saw the +last of them expire on his hand. + +But it wasn’t spring yet after all. + +The snow fell again, wet snow that melted at once and was dirty at +once; again the bells rang in the black cupola, and it was Good +Friday. Martin and Maria were in church, but they might not sit with +their parents, for their parents sat far away in the choir in a +multitude of solemn-looking people dressed in black. They were dressed +in black themselves, father in a frock coat with a white cravat, and +everything was black: the red on the pulpit and altar was gone, and +there was black instead; the priests had black capes, a black cross +rose menacingly from the leaden-hued cloud of the altar-piece far away +in the dusk of the choir, and black-gray sky lay above all, staring +in through the belfry windows of the cupola. Martin could not go to +sleep as usual, because everything was so uncanny: the choir moaned and +lamented, the minister looked sinister and forbidding and talked about +blood, and a dog howled out in the churchyard.... + +Martin was delighted with all this, although he didn’t realize it. + + * * * * * + +Spring at last, real spring.... It came first when the Royal Family +drove out to the big park with their plumed and golden equipage. How +the whole day shone, how radiant it was with blue and sunshine and +spring around the chimneys and roofs, around the weathercock on the +church tower! In Martin’s street the lindens were already out, and over +the leaning fences hovered clouds of white blossom, cherry blossom, +and hawthorn. On the square and along the Avenue the people thronged, +the whole city was out in bright and gay-colored costumes, and in +front of the Life Guards’ barracks stood the light blue guardsmen, +whom Martin loved and worshiped, on duty with sabers drawn. The Royal +Family drove past in a cloud of plumes and gold, the crowd cheered and +Martin cheered, and then everybody went out to the park to drink fruit +juices and mineral water at Bellmansruh. All around whined violins +and street-organs, and Martin felt completely happy. But on the way +back they stopped a moment to look at the Punch and Judy theater. The +landscape was already beginning to darken, but people still flocked +around the puppet theater where Punch was just going to beat his +wife to death. Martin pressed close to his mother. He saw mouths +open in a broad laugh around him in the dusk; he understood nothing, +but the sound of the cudgel on the doll’s head frightened him--were +people laughing at that bad man there beating his wife? Then came the +creditor, and him too Punch beat to death. The policeman and the devil +he treated similarly, till finally Death lured him into his cauldron, +and that was the end. Martin couldn’t laugh or weep either; he only +stared abashed and terrified into this new world, which was so unlike +his own. On the way home he was cold and tired. The sun was gone, it +grew darker and darker; the king had long since driven home to his +castle, and drunken men scuffled and bawled around him. The anemones +which Martin had picked at the edge of the wood were withered, and he +threw them away to be trampled into the mire. + +But when he was home at last and it was night and Martin lay in his bed +asleep, he dreamed that father hit mother on the head with a big cudgel. + + + + +--IX-- + + +Summer skies and summer sun, a white house with green trees.... + +Martin’s parents had rented several low-ceiled rooms with rickety white +furniture and the bluest window-blinds in the world for the small +square windows. Close to these windows passed the state highroad. +Here wagoners and wayfarers from the islands of the Malar went by +continually to and from the city, all stopping to pay the bridge toll, +for the white house belonged to the bridge-tender and stood just at the +abutment of Nockeby bridge. The bridge-tender sat every evening on his +porch, which was twined about with hop vines, drinking toddy, holding +out his money-box to the passers-by, chatting and telling yarns, for +he had been a sea captain and voyaged to many strange lands. But now +he was a little old white-haired man, who had for many years had the +tenancy of the bridge and had become a well-to-do citizen. + +On the evening of the first day, when the packing boxes, trunks, +and clothes-baskets were still standing higgledy-piggledy in the +room,--which still looked a little strange, though every wardrobe and +chair, every flower in the wall paper seemed to say, «We shall soon get +acquainted,»--and while the evening meal with butter and cheese and +some small broiled fish was spread by the window, Martin sat silent +on the corner of a chest surveying the strange and new picture: the +gray highroad with telegraph poles in which the wind sang, and the +dark shadowy figures of the horses and peasants outlined against the +greenish-blue western sky. Obliquely across the way a little to one +side was a slope with a clump of oaks, whose verdure stood out strong +and heavy in the summer twilight. Among these oaks was one that was +naked and black and could not put out leaves like the others, and in +its branches the crows had built a nest. + +Martin could not take his eyes from this black tree with the crow’s +nest between the branches. He thought he knew this tree, that he had +seen it before, or heard a story about it. + +And he dreamed of it that night. + + * * * * * + +Summer skies, summer days. Green fields, green trees.... + +The fields were full of flowers, and Martin and Maria picked them and +tied them up in bouquets for their mother. And Maria said to Martin: +«Look out for snakes! If you step on a snake, he’ll think you did it +on purpose, and then he’ll bite you.» So Martin trod as carefully as +he could in the high grass. She taught him too that it was a great sin +to pick the white strawberry blossoms, because it was from them the +strawberries grew. They agreed that the first one who saw a strawberry +blossom should say, «Free for that one!» And the one who had said it +should then have the right to pick it when it was ripe. But when they +came to the slope with the oaks, it was all white with blossoms under +the trees. Maria, who was the first to see it, cried, «Free for the +whole lot!» But when she saw that Martin did not look pleased, she +immediately proposed that they should divide the treasure, so they drew +an imaginary line from one tree to another and in this way divided +the whole slope into two parts. To the right of the line was Maria’s +strawberry field and to the left was Martin’s. After that they sat down +in the shade of an oak and arranged their flowers as they thought best, +and Maria taught Martin to stick in some fine heart-shaped grass among +the buttercups and ox-eye daisies and to tie up the bouquets with long +straws. But Martin soon grew tired with his flowers, for he had forgot +he had picked them to give to his mother. He let them lie in the grass +and lay down on his back among them to look at the clouds that were +drifting across the blue heavens high above his head. They were like +white dogs, small shaggy white dogs. Perhaps they were white dogs. When +people die, they go to heaven; but dogs, who have no regular soul, +can’t very well get so high up. They can jump around outside and play +with each other. But their masters must come out to them sometimes, and +then the little dogs leap up on their masters and lick them and are +ever so happy.... + +White clouds, summer clouds. + + * * * * * + +But the finest thing of all was the long bridge and the lake and all +the steamboats that blew their whistles when they were still far off so +that the bridge should open and let them through. Martin soon taught +himself to know them all: the _Fyris_, the _Garibaldi_, the _Bragë_, +which was never in a hurry; the lovely blue _Tynnelsö_, and the brown +_Enköping_, which was called the _Coffee-pot_, because it sputtered +like boiling coffee. Each boat had for him its particular expression, +so that he could distinguish them one from another a long way off. They +helped him to keep account of the time too. When the _Tynnelsö_ was +passing through the bridge, it was time to go home and have breakfast; +and when the _Runa_ blew with its hoarse throat, the _Bragë_ was not +far away, and it was in the _Bragë_ that papa came from the city. There +were tow-boats too with their long lines of barges; these barges often +got stuck in the gap of the bridge, and nothing in the world was so +much fun as to hear the bargemen swear. But on days when the lake was +green, with white foam, and the waves plashed high up over the bridge, +no steamboats could vie with the coasting sloops for first place in +Martin’s heart. In every skipper he saw a hero who defied wind and +wave to reach some strange, unknown port, for it never occurred to him +to think that they only sailed to Stockholm to sell the wood, hay, or +pottery they had on board. These cargoes, however, did not quite please +him, for he could not help their suggesting against his will some dark +suspicion of an ulterior motive in the skipper, and in the depths of +his heart he liked best the sloops that came empty from the city. Then +too these danced most boldly over the waves, and they steered toward +regions where Martin had never been, far beyond Tyska Botten and +Blackeberg--which were the boundary of the known world. + +It was there too that the sun went down every evening in a red and +glittering land of promise. Martin was entirely certain it was just +there the sun went down, right behind the cape, and not anywhere else. +He could see it all so plainly. He did not, however, imagine that +the people living over there could see the sun at close range or that +they need be afraid of its falling on their heads. If another boy had +come to him and said such a thing, Martin would have thought him very +stupid. For it is just the same with children as with grown-ups: they +often form the strangest conceptions of the world; but if any one shows +them the consequences of their ideas, they say he is very stupid, or +that it is improper to joke about serious things. + + * * * * * + +Summertime, strawberry time. + +At that period summer was different from now. There was a joy that +filled the days and evenings, pressing even into one’s nightly dreams; +and morning was joy personified. But one morning Martin awoke earlier +than usual, and when he heard a little bird twittering in the privet +hedge before his window and saw the sun was shining, he sat up in bed +and wanted to dress and go out. Then his mother came in and said he was +to lie still a little while yet, because it was his birthday, and Maria +was working at something outside which he mustn’t see before it was +ready. She kissed him and said that now he was seven he ought to be +really industrious and good in the summer, so that he wouldn’t need to +be ashamed in the autumn when he was to begin school. But when Martin +heard the word «school,» he forgot the bird twittering on the hedge and +the sun that was shining, and his throat felt choked as if he was going +to cry; but he controlled himself and didn’t cry. He didn’t know very +clearly what «school» meant, but it sounded very harsh and hard. + +To be sure his mother had school for him and Maria, but that was only +for a short while every day down in the garden, in the lilac arbor, +where butterflies flitted, yellow and white and blue, and bees hummed, +while his mother told them stories about Joseph in Egypt and about +kings and prophets, and taught them to make letters after a model. +He comprehended that real school must be something quite different. +But while his heart was troubled over having to start school in the +autumn, they all came in and congratulated him on his birthday: papa +and grandmother and Maria, and Maria put on an affected manner and said +with a bow, «I have the honor to congratulate----» But Martin became +bashful and blushed and turned his face to the wall. + +Then they left him alone. But it wasn’t long before grandmother stuck +in her head and called that the king was coming riding with fifteen +generals to congratulate Martin, and at the same moment he heard a +rumbling over the bridge as if there was thunder. He jumped out of +bed and threw on his clothes, but the noise came nearer, there was a +cloud of dust over the road, horses’ hoofs rang on the ground and the +bridge, and there were lightnings of drawn swords. When he came out +on the porch, the foremost riders had already passed, but Martin’s +mother consoled him with the fact that the king had not been with +them. Instead it had been almost all his army, which was on its way +to the region of Drottningsholm for maneuvers. There were hussars and +dragoons and all the artillery from Stockholm, and the artillerists +were shaking like sacks of potatoes on their caissons and were gray and +black with dust and dirt. But Martin admired them all the more in that +condition and wondered within himself if it wouldn’t be better to be an +artillerist than a coasting skipper. + +The martial array passed and was gone, a fresh wind came from the lake +and took with it the odor of dirt and sweat which remained, and when +Martin turned around, there stood beside the breakfast table a little +table set especially for him; Maria had decorated it with flowers and +green leaves. Then he got bashful and blushed again, but he was very +happy too, for on the middle of the table stood a cake which his mother +had baked for him, a big dish full of wild strawberries which Maria had +picked under the oaks, a twenty-five-öre piece from papa, and a package +of stockings which mother had knitted. Of all these things Martin cared +most for the twenty-five-öre piece. For he had come to realize that a +pair of stockings was just a pair of stockings, and a cake was a cake, +but a twenty-five-öre piece was an indefinite number of fulfilled +wishes in any direction whatever up to a certain limit, and experience +had not yet taught him how narrow was that limit. + +Martin went around and thanked everybody, and tasted the cake and the +berries, and saw that the stockings were handsome with red borders, and +put the twenty-five-öre piece in a match box, which was his savings +bank. In it up to now there had been a couple of old copper coins +and some small pebbles which he had come across in the sand and kept +because they were so pretty. + +Then the _Bragë_ blew at Tysk Botten, and papa had to be off to the +city, but Martin was allowed to go with mamma and grandmother and +Maria to Drottningsholm. There stood the king’s white summer palace, +mirrored in the bright inlet. The trees in the park were bigger than +any other trees, and the shade under them was deep and cool. And over +the dark waters of the ponds and canals the white swans glided with +their stiffly outstretched necks, and Martin imagined that they never +troubled themselves about anything else in the world than their own +white dreams. + +But grandmother had a French roll with her, which she broke into crumbs +and fed to them as one feeds chickens. + + * * * * * + +Summer days, pleasure days, cornflowers in the yellow rye.... + +It was near harvest time, and Martin was walking along the road with +his mother. Maria was on the other side, and now and then she would +pick a cornflower from out of the rye. Mother had a pink dress and a +straw hat with a wide brim, and she was talking with them about mankind +and the world and God. + +[Illustration: Rural path] + +«Look, Martin,» she said, «there are the heavy and the light ears of +grain that we read about today in the arbor. You remember the full ear +that bowed itself so deeply to the earth because it had so many grains +to carry. The grains are ground into meal in the mill, and the meal is +baked into bread, and the bread is good to eat when any one is hungry. +But the empty ear is good for nothing, the farmer throws it away or +gives it to his horse to chew, and even the horse doesn’t get any +fatter from it. And yet it raises itself so proudly aloft and looks +down on the other ears which stand and bend around it.» + +With that mother broke off the proud light ear and showed Martin that +it was quite empty. + +«Such are many among men,» she said. «You’ll come to see that when +you’re big. You will also see people who go about hanging their heads +to make others think they belong to the full ears. But they are just +the emptiest of all. + +«But you must also remember, children, that it is not your part to +judge, either now or when you grow up, whether any one belongs to the +full or the empty ears. Such a thing no man can rightly know about +another. That only God knows.» + +When mother talked to Martin about God, he felt at the same time solemn +and a little embarrassed, somewhat as a little dog might feel when one +tries to talk to him as to a person. For when he heard his mother tell +about paradise and Noah’s ark, he could follow along very well--he +saw it all so clearly before his eyes, the apple tree and the serpent +and all the animals in the ark. But at the word «God» he could not +picture anything definite, either an old man or a middle-aged man with +a black beard. At the very top of the blue dome in the church cupola +was a great painted eye, and mother had said this was a symbol of God. +But this solitary eye seemed to Martin so uncanny and sad. He hardly +dared look at it, and it did not at all help him to comprehend what +God really looked like. He had also had to learn by heart the Ten +Commandments, which God had written for Moses on Mt. Sinai. But they +seemed only to strengthen his secret suspicion that God was something +that only concerned the grown-ups. It never could be to Martin that God +spoke when he said, «Thou shalt have no other gods but me.» Martin knew +neither what an idol looked like nor what one could do to worship it. +That he should honor his parents came of itself. He felt no temptation +to murder or to steal or to covet his neighbor’s maid-servant, his ox, +or his ass. And he had no idea how he could commit adultery; but he +resolved he would try to guard against it anyway, to be on the safe +side. + +«God knows everything, both the present and the future. He Himself +has ordained it all. And when you pray to God, Martin, you must not +believe that you with your prayers can in the slightest alter His will. +But still God wishes men to pray to Him, and therefore you must do it. +You must never give up saying your evening prayer before you go to +sleep, no matter how big and wise you get. But when you become big and +have to look out for yourself in the world, you must never forget that +you must depend first and foremost on yourself. God helps only him who +helps himself. And if it ever happens in life that there is something +you desire deeply, so that you think you can never be happy again +unless you get it--then you must not pray to God to give it to you. Try +rather to get it for yourself; but if that is impossible, then pray Him +for strength to renounce your wish. He does not like other kinds of +prayer.» + +So Martin Birck’s mother spoke as they walked along. And the summer +wind whispered around them and passed on over the field, and the grain +waved. + + * * * * * + +The bridge-tender, old Moberg, had an assistant by the name of Johan. +Johan was fourteen or fifteen and soon became Martin’s best friend. +He made bows and arrows and bark boats for Martin, and Martin helped +him to wind up the drawbridge. In the evening, when he was free, he +used also to play hide and seek and «There’s no robbers in the woods» +with Martin and Maria and a few other children. But it was neither on +account of the bark boats nor the games that Martin was so fond of +Johan and admired him so extraordinarily. It was because Johan always +had so many wonderful things to tell about, things that papa and mamma +and grandmother never told about. It was especially in the dusk that +Johan was wont to be so communicative, when Martin and he sat on a beam +by the opening in the bridge and waited for the approaching steamboat, +whose lanterns would sooner or later pop out from behind the cape, +first the green and then the red. At such times Johan might tell of +this, that, or the other thing. One time it would be about old Moberg, +who used to see tiny little devils jumping up and down, up and down, +in his toddy glass; it was about them he talked when he sat muttering +to himself and stirring his glass. But the minister at Lovö was still +worse. Why, he was a friend of Old Spotty himself, the whole parish +knew that. Anybody could see that for himself if he thought about it; +how otherwise could he get up in the pulpit and preach the way he did +for a whole hour; where did he get all his words from? Furthermore +Johan had had to go to him one time on an errand and had been in his +room and had seen with his own eyes that it was chock-full of books +from floor to ceiling. Oh, yes, he was in with the Old Boy sure +enough!--Or Johan would tell about a man who had been murdered on the +highroad three years back, quite near, and would describe the place +exactly: «It was just there where the wood is so thick on one side, +and on the other is a willow alongside of a telegraph pole. It was an +evening in November that it happened, and now if anybody goes by at the +right time, he can hear the most terrible groaning in the ditch---- But +they never got the fellow that did it.» + +When Martin heard such things, he squeezed close to Johan’s arm, and he +felt lighter at heart when the steamboat’s lanterns shone out of the +dark and came nearer, when he heard the thump-thump of the engine and +the captain’s orders, and they had to hurry to wind up the drawbridge. +When they went home across the bridge, they were both excited with +thoughts of ghosts and murders, and Johan said to Martin, «Listen, he’s +after us!» + +Martin didn’t know whether _he_ was the murderer or the murdered, but +he fancied he heard steps on the bridge and didn’t dare to look around. +Johan, however, who had a cheerful disposition, drove off his fear by +striking up a jolly song. He sang to the tune of «There was an old +woman by Konham Square»: + + «I go to my death wherever I go, killivillivippombom!» + +And Martin joined in and sang along with him. + +But when they got to the bridge-tender’s house, Johan was silent while +Martin sang at the top of his voice: + + «I go to my death wherever I go, killivillivippombom!» + +The bridge-tender, old Moberg, was sitting on his porch, which was +embowered in hop vines, drinking toddy with two farmers in the light +of a round Japanese lantern. He was an old man who drank toddy every +evening, and people said he couldn’t last much longer. But he was most +unwilling to die. If he heard any one speak of illness or death, it +was to him as if he had heard something indecent, or indeed it was +much worse, for indecent talk rather raised his spirits than offended +his ears. But when he saw Martin coming along the road and heard him +singing a funeral hymn to the tune of an insolent street song, he got +up and advanced along the road with tottering steps till he halted in +front of Martin. Martin stopped too and was silent directly. He looked +around for Johan, but Johan had vanished. + +Old Moberg had become blue in the face, as he said in a trembling +voice: «And this child is supposed to come of respectable people! These +are strange times, I may say.» + +Thereupon he went into the house, without either drinking his toddy or +saying good night to the farmers, and went to bed. + +But Martin was left alone on the road, and everything around him had +become silent all of a sudden. He heard only the sound of the farmers’ +sticks as they went off in the dark without speaking. + +Martin’s parents, however, had heard the whole affair from the veranda +on the side of the house. + +«Martin, come in!» + +Martin was as red as his collar was white. Now he’d have to give an +account of who had taught him to sing such things. But he said he had +thought of it himself. Father explained to Martin how dreadfully he had +behaved, and Martin cried and was sent to bed. His mother cried too +when she said prayers with him. She was frightened and wrought up. For +children’s offenses, like those of adults, are judged more according to +the scandal they have aroused than according to their inner nature, and +Martin’s misdeed had caused a terrible scandal. + + * * * * * + +The most beautiful days of summer were gone. In the daytime there was +rain and wind, and the lake turned green. And at dusk the crows flapped +around the slope with the oaks and the naked tree. + +When it rained, Martin was set to read «The Bee and the Dove» and «The +Toad and the Ox.» He read too «Tiny’s Trip to Dreamtown.» + + «Little gold fishes in goodly row + Swim through the silver sea there. + Tiny is off to Dreamtown, ho! + Ere it is night he’ll be there. + + «Soon, soon + Close to the moon + He sees its outline fleeting. + Bright, bright + Many a light + Sends him a kindly greeting. + + «On glides the ship, it nears the land. + Lamps are a-gleam so pretty + Down at the edge of the murmuring strand, + Bells ring out from the city.» + +The city! Tears came into Martin’s eyes. He had often thought of the +city in the past days and had wondered if everything was the same at +home. For in winter Martin longed for the green grass of summer and the +strawberries in the woods, but when a flock of summer days had gone by +and the green was no longer fresh and the wild roses in the meadows +were gray with the dust of the highroad, he dreamed once more of the +city’s gleaming rows of lamps, of Christmas and snow, and of the gray +winter twilight in front of the lighted fire. + + + + +--X-- + + +The wheel of the year had gone around, and it was again autumn. + +In the city there was much that was new. Long Row was gone with its +gardens and sheds; in its place a great brick building rose aloft, +growing higher every day, obscuring both the lindens of Humlegård +Park and the Observatory on its hill. Everywhere people were pulling +down and building up, and dynamite blasts resounded every day in +the district, which was now no longer to be called Ladgardsland but +Östermalm. And Mrs. Heggbom had become a lady. If anybody called her +by her former title, she would answer politely but decidedly, «Not any +more!» + +Martin went to school, but it was a modest little school and not nearly +so terrible as he had thought. One had only to learn one’s lessons, and +everything went well. And Martin felt with pride that his knowledge of +the world was enlarged with every day. Space and time daily extended +their boundaries before his eyes; the world was much bigger than he +had dreamed and so old that his head grew giddy at the multitude of +the years. If one looked ahead, time had no limits--it ran out into a +dizzying blue infinity; but if one traced it back, one at least found +far back in the darkness a beginning, a place where one had to stop: +six thousand years before the birth of Our Saviour it was that God had +created the world. That stood clear and plain in Martin’s Biblical +History, on the first page. + +In six days He had made it. But the teacher said that days were longer +at that time. + +But if possibly the days of the creation had been a little longer than +ordinary days, it was just the opposite with Methusalem’s nine hundred +and sixty-nine years. «At that time, you see, they didn’t reckon the +years as long as now,» the teacher said. + +There was so much new to learn and digest; school had in reality none +of those terrors with which Martin had arrayed it in his imagination. + +But on the other hand the way to and from school was filled with +all sorts of perils and adventures. Those ill-disposed beings who +were called rowdies and who called Martin and his comrades stuck-ups +might be in ambush around any corner. The worst of these rowdies were +the fierce and formidable «marsh rowdies,» who would now and then +leave their gloomy habitation in the tract between the Humlegård and +Roslagstorg, the «Marsh,» to go on the war path. Their weapons were +said to be lead balls on the end of short ropes. But more than these +marsh rowdies, whom Martin had never seen and of whose existence he +was not entirely sure, he feared the horrible Franz, who used to live +in the Long Row and still resided in the same street. For this rowdy +directed all his energies and intelligence toward embittering Martin’s +life by day and even pursued him into his nocturnal dreams. + +But one day when Martin was on his way for morning recess, he found +two of his comrades in a fight with Franz at a street corner; in fact +they had already overcome him, thrown him down, and were pummeling him +with their fists. At this time Martin had begun to read Indian books, +so that he at once saw in Franz a parallel to the noble redskin and did +not want to miss so favorable a chance of making him his ally against +other rowdies. He therefore advanced and represented to his comrades +how cowardly it was to fight two against one, said that Franz lived in +his street and was a very decent rowdy, and proposed that they let him +go in peace. While he thus drew the attention of his comrades, Franz +managed to get up and run away. + +In return Martin got all the licking intended for Franz. Furthermore +he had to endure the scorn of his comrades for being the friend of a +rowdy. And the next time he met Franz on the street in front of the +dyer’s gate, the latter tripped him so that he fell into the gutter, +then gave him a bloody nose, tore his books apart, swore at him +frightfully, and ran off. + +He had not understood that he was supposed to be a noble redskin. But +this Franz was not a rowdy of the usual sort; he was a thoroughly awful +rowdy. + + + + +--XI-- + + +Martin entered the high school. + +Here everything was strange and cold. Gray walls, long corridors. The +school yard was like the desert of Sahara. When the bell rang for the +first recess, Martin slipped off by himself so as to escape his new +comrades. But the next recess they gathered around him in a ring, +surveying him for a while in silence, till finally a little red-haired +boy with a broad pate opened his mouth to ask, «What sort of devil are +you?» + +At these words Martin had a dark premonition that a new stage of his +life was beginning. He had been as happy as a plant in the earth, as +is every little child with kind parents and a good home. Now the doors +were opened upon an entirely new world, a world where one could not +get on by the same simple means that his father and mother had shown +him: _i.e._, by being polite and friendly towards all he met and never +taking advantage of others. Here the thing was to decide quickly and +firmly in what case one should use one’s fists, in what one should +take to one’s heels, and under what circumstances one could benefit by +cunning and deceit. It was not long, either, before Martin got the way +of things. He suddenly remembered various curses and ugly words that +he had heard from the bridge-tender’s assistant in the country, and he +missed no opportunity of fitting them in here and there in conversation +with his associates wherever he thought they would go. In this way +he became sooner acquainted with the other boys, and they in return +enlightened him in much that a newcomer might find useful: _e.g._, +which of the teachers flogged and which only gave bad marks; that the +worst of all was Director Sundell, who had mirrors in his spectacles so +that he saw what was done behind his back and always wore galoshes so +that he couldn’t be heard in the corridors; that «Sausages» was decent, +though he marked hard, but that «The Flea» was a damned sneak. + + + + +--XII-- + + +So year was added to year, and the new buried the old, while Martin +was slowly initiated into the twofold art of life, to learn and to +forget. For as the gambler in order to keep on till the last coin has +run through his trembling fingers must forget his losses in the hope of +future gains, so humanity, the gambler by compulsion, finds that the +greatest art is to forget and that upon this depends everything. + +Martin forgot. The Red Turk, who had long since wearied of jumping, +was as much forgotten as if he had never been. And Uncle Abraham, who +had given him to Martin and who had hanged himself with a stove-cord +one rainy day, when he didn’t find it worth the trouble to live any +more, was soon forgotten as well, though he now and again came up in +Martin’s dreams as a dark and disturbing riddle. But while the boy was +forgetting, he learned. A third of the truth was transmitted by the +teachers, and another third was given by his comrades, who soon helped +him to lift the veil under which was hidden the Sixth Commandment and +everything pertaining to it. They made free use of the Scriptures in +their researches. They explained precisely what it was that Absolom did +with his father’s concubines on the roof of the palace before all the +people, and they reveled with Ezekiel over the abysmal sin of Ahala +and Ahaliba. But although both of these thirds were given him with an +admixture of errors and lies, and although the final third--which was +perhaps the most important and which it was his task to search out for +himself sometime--had not yet begun to occupy him; yet nevertheless +every day widened the chinks experience tore through the spiderweb +tissue of legend and dream with which friendly hands had fenced in his +childhood, and more and more often through the cracks gaped the great +empty void which is called the world. + + + + +THE WHITE CAP ❧ + + + + +--I-- + + +When Martin Birck had got the white cap, his first errand was to go +into a cigar booth to buy a cane of cinnamon wood and a package of +cigarettes. The young girl who stood in the shop had black eyes and a +thick bang. Her exterior corresponded but imperfectly with the ideal of +his dreams, which belonged to a more blonde and Gretchen-like sphere; +but when she congratulated him pleasantly on his white cap and at the +same time regarded him with a look full of kindliness, despite the fact +that he had never before been in her shop, he suddenly felt all warm +about the heart, caught her dirty hand, which lay outstretched across +the counter display of Cameo and Duke of Durham, and tenderly kissed +it. However, he repented almost at once. He had no doubt behaved badly. +He did not, to be sure, imagine that the young girl was completely +innocent--she had no doubt a lover, possibly several; but that was no +reason why any one at all had the right to come in from the street +and kiss her hand just like that. He was embarrassed and didn’t know +what to say or do, till he finally plucked up courage to select a cane, +light a cigarette, and go out. + +[Illustration: Village street] + +Queen Street was still wet after the last shower, little ladies with +jogging bustles lifted their skirts to jump over puddles, which +mirrored the blue above; stylish gentlemen with thin angular legs +and canes like Martin’s swung their top-hats in pompous salutation, +revealing in the act heads so close-clipped that the scalp shone +through. Over the roofs and chimneys of the gray houses the restless +white spring clouds hurried in fluttering haste, and far down at the +bottom of the street the sunlight quivered between churches and towers. + +Martin stopped in front of every store window to see the reflection of +his white cap. He could not understand how he had become a student. +Up to the last he had believed he would be flunked. His surprise was +the more joyous when he received his student certificate the same as +the others, and especially when he came to the closing lines, «In +consideration whereof the aforesaid M. Birck has been adjudged worthy +to receive the certificate: _Graduated with honor_.» These words caused +his heart to swell with deep gratitude toward his corps of teachers, +for although he considered himself fairly proficient, it was far beyond +his expectations to find this idea shared by his instructors. During +the last terms he had seldom known his lessons. Often he had not +even been able to bring himself to read them over in the ten-minute +intermission before classes or to slip a couple of loose leaves from +his textbook into his Bible so as to study them during morning prayers, +while the lector in theology stood on the platform and talked bosh--a +resource which ordinarily even the most frivolous of his comrades +would not fail to use. He would, however, have liked to gratify his +parents with good marks, although for his own part he had not any great +ambition in that direction; but during the last years there had come +over him a dull apathy for everything connected with school, against +which he could do nothing. It was so hard for him to take it in full +earnest. Whenever, contrary to his custom, he had distinguished himself +in this or that subject, he was almost ashamed within himself, as if +he had done something stupid. As often as he was supposed to dig down +into the paltry details in which textbooks delight, he felt himself as +ridiculous as the man who, when his house was on fire, saved the poker. + +Now that the poker was saved, however, he was so overjoyed that he +could have sung; he felt that he was happy and free, as he hastened +home with his white cap, home to the blossoming street of his +childhood. But the street was no longer the same as before. From a +single plot the cherry tree still stretched its branches out over a +mossy board fence; everything else was great red brick buildings and +small commonplace meeting-houses. The rowdy Franz could no longer +disturb what idyllic atmosphere was still left, for he had grown up and +become big, and had now been for some time behind the bars of Langholm +jail. + + + + +--II-- + + +Home was quieter and more empty than before. Maria, Martin’s sister, +had been married a year ago to a doctor who lived far away in the +country, and grandmother was no longer there. + +In the evening Martin and his companions were to have a supper at +Hasselbacken. Martin’s father gave him five crowns to offer to the joy +of youth, and his mother took him aside and said: «Martin, Martin, +you must promise me to be careful tonight and not be led into any +foolishness. Don’t make a point of emptying your glass every time any +one drinks a toast with you, or you’ll lose your head. The best thing +would be just to pretend you drank. And I must tell you, Martin, that +there is a class of dreadful women who do nothing else but try to lead +young men to their destruction. You must beware of them especially. +Dear Martin, if I only knew you had given yourself to the Lord and +had your thoughts fixed on Him, I shouldn’t be anxious about you; but +I know you don’t do that. Their very breath is poisonous; if you only +stand on the street and talk to such a woman, you may catch the most +frightful diseases that no doctor in the world can cure.» + +«Mother dear,» said Martin, «you’re always getting off on that.» + +He took up his white cap, said good-by and went. + +His mother followed him with troubled eyes, and when he was gone, sat +down in a dark corner and wept. For she knew she was going to lose him +as mothers always lose their sons. + + + + +--III-- + + +Martin thought of his mother as he went along the Avenue on the way to +the Park. How could the relations between them have become what they +were? To her he was still a little child. When he first began to speak +to her of his religious doubts, she pretended to believe that it was +something he had got from outside, from bad comrades or some wicked +book. Later things reached such a point that he could no longer talk +to her about anything but the most ordinary subjects--about shirts +and socks and buttons to be sewed on. If their conversation ever took +a serious turn, they treated each other mutually as little children. +Thus, without his meaning it or noticing it before it was too late, +he got a condescending tone that hurt her, so that after such a +conversation a thorn remained in the heart of each. + +She often lay awake at night weeping and sorrowing over his unbelief. +She herself, however, was of the earth in her thoughts, her hopes, +and the whole of her being. She believed in hell of course, because +she believed in the Bible; but she could never seriously imagine that +her son or any one at all whom she knew and associated with would go +to such a horrible place. It was not therefore on account of his soul +that she grieved most but for his future here on earth, since she had +observed that things did not ordinarily go well in the world with those +who contemned God and religion. Some of them got into prison, others +left their country to go among strangers, and all aroused distrust and +ill-will among respectable folk. She feared that her son might come to +be one of these, and it was this idea which kept her awake at night and +left her with swollen eyes. She had no more precious dream than that +he should be «like other folk,» as most people are, if possible better +and above all happier, but still on the whole as they were. She could +imagine that her son might become a poet, she could even wish it, for +she loved poetry; the tears came into her eyes when he read her some of +his poems; but she pictured it that he would sit at some office work on +weekdays, and only on Sundays or in his free hours write some verses +about sunsets, which he would send in to the Swedish Academy and get +a prize, so that he would become at the same time a great poet and a +respected business man with an assured income. She believed in full +seriousness that he would be more highly thought of among poets if he +was in an office and had a title than if he just wrote. That was how it +had been with all the real poets. Tegnér was a bishop, and even Bellman +had at least had a position in the lottery bureau. As an example that +Martin should especially take to follow, she used to mention a poet +whom she had known when she was young, who was now an auditor in the +Court of Exchequer and wrote verses about everything that was grand +and beautiful, about the sea and the sun and the king, and had been +decorated with the Order of Vasa. Such a life she considered noble and +to be emulated, and when her dreams of her son’s future were at their +highest, it was something of this sort she imagined. + +But Martin dreamed other dreams. He wanted to be a poet. He would write +a book; a novel or a lyric sequence, or best of all a drama of ideas +in the same verse form as «Brand» or «Peer Gynt.» He would devote his +life to searching for the truth and giving to mankind what he found +or thought he had found of it. He would also become famous, a great +man; he would earn a lot of money, he would buy a little house for his +father and a new silk dress for his mother--her old one was worn and +faded. He would be envied by men and sought after by women, but of all +the women in the world he should not love more than one, and that one a +woman who loved another man. This unhappy love should give his thoughts +depth and bitterness and his poems wings. But he had a dark feeling +that while he sought for truth he should only find truths, and that +while he gave them to men in verse more wonderful than any music or in +a clear and cold prose with words like sharp teeth, he would despise +himself for reaping honor and gold for the morsels he had found by +accident while he was seeking for something else. This self-contempt +would eat into his soul and make of him an empty husk. But he would +not let the world note anything; he would paint his cheeks, pencil his +eyebrows and hold up his head, and at the very moment when he himself +most deeply despised his poetry and set it below the humblest manual +labor, he would inspire men most and be elected to the Swedish Academy +to succeed Wirsén. With a countenance immobile as a mask he would give +the usual flowery oration on his predecessor. Never again after that +would he set pen to paper. In a strangely colorful and disordered +life he would seek to deaden his despair. No sin should be unknown to +him; in broad daylight he would drive in an open carriage through the +streets with harlots and buffoons, and he would pass the nights in +drinking and play. Till one gloomy October night he wearied of his mad +and empty life, made a fire in his stove and burned his papers, emptied +a glass of dark red wine spiced with a strange herb, and went to sleep +to awake no more.... + +Or perhaps it was unnecessary that his life should end so tragically. +When he thought it over more carefully, this seemed to him even a +trifle banal. He might just as well move to a small town, to Strengness +or Grenna. There he could live alone with a parrot and a black cat. He +might also have an aquarium with goldfish. Behind closed shutters he +would dream away the day, but when night came he would light candles in +all the rooms and pace back and forth, back and forth, meditating on +the vanity of life. And when the townfolk passed his house on the way +home from their evening toddy at the rathskeller, they would stop to +point at his window and say: «There lives Martin Birck. He has taught +like a sage and lived like a fool, and he is very unhappy.» + + * * * * * + +All this and a lot more Martin Birck thought as he went out the Avenue +across the park on the way to Hasselbacken. + + + + +--IV-- + + +The orchestra struck up the opening bars of «Mefistofele.» + +Martin was sitting out by the balcony railing with Henrik Rissler. They +listened to the music, looked out across the terraces, and said little. +Henrik Rissler had a smooth white forehead and calm limpid eyes. His +glance was long and questing; it seemed to slip over the objects +nearest it in order more quickly to reach those farther off. He was the +only one of Martin’s comrades who had sought his company outside of +school. They used to go to each other’s homes in the afternoon to talk +and smoke cigarettes, and once in a while they had gone on long walks +together, often in rain, snow, or wind, out to the park or through the +suburbs, talking the while of everything that concerns young men, of +girls and God and the immortality of the soul. Or they would go into +the gas-lighted streets with the sensation of throwing themselves into +the turmoil of the world, would stand in front of etchings in book-shop +windows, where they admired beyond everything a lithograph entitled +«Don Juan in Hades» with a motto from Baudelaire: + + The hero all the while, half leaning on his sword, + Gazed at the vessel’s wake and deigned not to look up. + +This picture excited their imagination, their hearts beat more quickly +when in the current of humanity they brushed elbows with a pretty girl, +and they believed they were living through an entire adventure every +time an old painted professional threw them an ardent glance. + +But the original cause of their friendship was that they had both read +Jacobsen’s novel, _Niels Lyhne_, and loved it more than other books. + +Inside the house the others were talking and laughing around the +punch-bowls, forming themselves into groups and coteries. Most of them +grouped themselves after their old custom according to social and +intellectual similarities and differences, which even on the school +benches had united some and separated them from others; Gabel and +Billfelt, Jansson and Moberg, Planius and Tullman. Others went about +somewhat morosely and talked about all keeping together. + +Josef Marin rapped on a bowl and called for a toast «to the ontological +proof.» It was drunk with rather half-hearted acclaim. Everyone was so +tired of school matters that it didn’t seem worth the trouble even to +make fun of them. + +Josef Marin was to be a clergyman, but he was still not quite settled +in his faith. + +The music played student songs, «Stand Strong!» and «Here’s to Happy +Student Days!» Dusk began to fall over the tops of the trees, over +the roofs and chimneys of the city and the heights of the southern +mountains, the pallid dusk of spring twilight, which rarefies and +uplifts all things, making them hover with the unreality of a dream +world. The crowd, who were clinking glasses and drinking down on the +terrace and who a little while ago could still be clearly divided into +their component parts as lieutenants and students, guardsmen and girls, +and townsfolk with their wives and children, had now melted together +in the dusk into an indefinite mass. As though by an inexplicable +caprice the murmur suddenly became silent, so that for the moment one +could hear the plash of the water in the fountain and the last sleepy +bird-notes from the trees. And in the west already flamed a solitary +and mighty star. + +«Look at Venus,» said Henrik; «how she glitters!» + +Martin sat contemplatively drawing on the table, and the strokes under +his hand formed themselves into a woman’s arms and breast. + +«Tell me,» he asked suddenly--he felt that he was blushing--«tell +me, do you think it’s possible for a man to live chaste till real +happiness in love comes to him? That’s surely what one would wish. To +be with women whom one has no feeling for, who belong to another class, +who have dirty linen and use ugly words and only think about being +paid--that must be loathsome.» + +Henrik Rissler too became a little red. + +«It’s possible,» he said; «yes, for some it’s always possible. People +are so different. But I know this much of myself, that it will hardly +be possible for me. Then at least the great love mustn’t keep me +waiting much longer.» + +They sat silent and gazed at the star, which glittered ever more +brightly in the darkening blue. + +«Venus,» Martin murmured, «Venus. She’s a great and beautiful star. But +I don’t see why she should have a name. Anyhow, she doesn’t come when +she’s invoked.» + +Martin suddenly heard a strange voice behind his chair. + +«Very true,» said the voice, «very true. She doesn’t come when she’s +invoked. An equally mournful and accurate observation!» + +Martin turned in surprise. The stranger was a man carelessly dressed, +with a student cap, a pale narrow face and black mustaches which hung +down over his mouth so that it wasn’t easy to see whether he smiled or +was serious. His face looked oldish for the white cap, and it was not +entirely clean. + +One of Martin’s companions stood beside him and made the introduction, +«Doctor Markel.» + +Doctor Markel had come there with an older brother of Billfelt’s. They +had come from Upsala that day, eaten dinner at Hasselbacken, and then +invited themselves to share the student supper. The elder Billfelt +was giving a talk inside at the moment. Martin heard something about +«Upsala» and «alma mater.» + +Doctor Markel sat down beside Henrik and Martin without further +ceremony. + +«Two young poets, eh?» he asked. «I venture to assume so, since the +gentlemen sit here by themselves apart from the vulgar throng and talk +about the stars. May I ask what your attitude toward life is? Do you +believe in God?» + +Henrik Rissler looked at the stranger in surprise, and Martin shook his +head. + +Doctor Markel looked entirely serious, except that there was a slight +mist over his eyes, which were large and mournful. + +Some of the others had come up and were now listening to the +conversation. Planius and Tullman presented the same docile +countenances with which they had listened in class to the exposition of +the instructor. Gabel simpered sarcastically with his fine aristocratic +face, and behind him Josef Marin pressed up. Josef Marin was short +and slight; he looked pale and overworked. The two or three glasses +of punch he had drunk had already made him a bit convivial; but now +when he heard a serious question proposed and could not see that there +was any joke behind it, he broke in with all the earnestness he could +summon up at the moment: «I believe in God. But I don’t conceive Him as +a personal being.» + +Doctor Markel seemed pleasantly surprised. + +«Oh, you are a pantheist, charming! That’s what you must be too»--he +turned to Martin--«you who are studying to be a poet. For poets and +those who want to seduce girls--and that all poets wish--I cannot +sufficiently recommend the pantheistic conception. Nothing can be +more suited for turning the head of a young girl than the pantheistic +rhapsodizing with which Faust answers Gretchen’s simple question, ‹Do +you believe in God?› If he had answered as simply and unaffectedly as +she asked, ‹No, my child, I don’t believe in God,› you may be sure +the girl would have crossed herself, run home to her quiet chamber, +and turned the key twice in the lock. Instead he answers that he both +believes and disbelieves--which gives the impression of deep spiritual +conflict--and that God is really a name for the feeling that two lovers +have when they lie in the same bed. This he says with much feeling and +in beautiful language, so that it does not shock her modesty; on the +contrary, she thinks he talks like a priest, and the rest we know---- +And for a poet---- But first allow me as an elder student....» + +With easy familiarity Doctor Markel drank brotherhood with all who were +within range and then continued: + +«For a poet, pantheism is a pure godsend, a regular gold-mine. If +he is a churchman, he will be given the Order of Charles XIII and +a good income, but will only be read by missies and be ridiculed by +the liberal papers, which have the largest circulation. If he is an +atheist, he will be considered a shallow and superficial fellow, a +poor sort, and he will have a hard time to borrow money. No, a poet +should believe in God, but in a god who is out of the ordinary run, +something not yet existent, never before shown in any circus, that +one can never really get hold of, for then the game would be up. The +pantheistic god is exactly the raw material needed for such a being. +That is the ideal for a god. Each and every one can carve him to his +own taste, he is never without humor, he never punishes and of course +never rewards either, he takes the whole show easily, which comes from +the fact that he lacks a small characteristic that even the simplest +of the town rowdies possesses to some extent: namely, personality. +That’s just the choice thing about him. To a personal god one must +stand in a personal relation; that is, one must become a religionist. +To be a religionist is excellent if one has just come out of Langholm +jail and needs to be rehabilitated in society. Otherwise it is +unnecessary. You see my drift, gentlemen: to stick to a personal god +entails a lot of unnecessary trouble, to be without a god entirely is +ticklish. Therefore one must have an impersonal god. Such a god sets +the imagination going and comes out finely in poetry without in return +entailing any obligation. With such a god one will be regarded by +cultured circles as a person of noble and enlightened thought and may +become pretty nearly anything from an archbishop to the editor of a +radical newspaper. + +«In formal style this god may be called the Allfather, in common speech +the Lord. As a matter of fact he doesn’t need any name, it is with him +as with that star off there: no matter how one calls him, he won’t +come.» + +The gesture with which Doctor Markel sought and, as it were, beckoned +to the star met only a dark and sullen firmament, for great clouds had +gathered, the star was gone, it had grown dusky as an autumn evening, +and some big raindrops now began to fall on the railing. + +Doctor Markel’s lecture was not well received. Josef Marin, who had +been drinking more punch meanwhile and had become even paler than +before, muttered something to the effect that he ought to have a smack +on the jaw. The others got up in groups and discussed whether they +should go home. + +The elder Billfelt took in the situation, rang for the waiter and +ordered champagne. He raised his glass and returned thanks in +well-rounded periods for the cordiality with which he and his friend, +Doctor Markel, representatives of Upsala and alma mater, had been +received by the future alumni. He then paid for the champagne and went +off with Markel. + +«Your brother is a gentleman,» said Gabel to Billfelt. + + * * * * * + +It rained as if the heavens were opened. They crowded into a street car +to go into the city and have coffee. Most of them voted to go to the +Hamburg Bourse. + +Martin, who had always believed the Hamburg Bourse was a place where +the German merchants of Stockholm assembled to do business, found +himself to his surprise entering a café that seemed to irradiate a +fabulous magnificence. Here and there on the couches sat some of his +former teachers and a lot of oldsters who lifted their glasses and +nodded genially. + +Coffee and liqueurs were brought in. There was talk of future plans. +Most of them were to study law and expected to spend the summer in +reading up. Enthusiasm rose, and rash promises were made to keep in +touch and not forget each other. At one end of the table Gabel and +Billfelt swore eternal friendship; at the other Jansson expatiated on +his feeling for Moberg. It was only with difficulty that Josef Marin +could be restrained from prophesying. When Josef Marin prophesied he +would read out long rigmaroles of stuff, marriage announcements from +the _Daily News_ mixed with bits from Tegnér’s _Svea_ and Norbeck’s +_Theology_, all recited in the solemn monotone with which he imagined +Elisha had chastised Ahab, and Ezekiel foretold the destruction of +Israel and Judah. It was one o’clock, getting on towards two, and +various members of the party had already said good night and gone off, +especially those who seriously meant to read up for law. The crowd +was thinning, the electric light had long ago been turned off, only a +couple of gas jets were still burning, and the waiters stood with the +air of martyrs as they yearned for sleep and _pourboire_. There was +nothing to do but break up. + +Outside, the glimmer of dawn had already begun to spread over the +streets and squares. It was no longer raining, but the air felt moist +and cold and misty, and through the mist the clock-face of Jacobs +church shone like a moon in a comic paper. + +It was hard to separate, and the company walked some distance down +along the car tracks past the opera house. Out of Lagerlunden came a +group of poets and journalists, and Martin looked at them reverently, +wondering whether it would ever be vouchsafed him to become one of +them. The student caps gleamed white in the night, whereupon moths came +fluttering from right and left, slipping their arms under those of the +young men and tempting them with promises of the greatest happiness +in life, until amid convivial mirth and harmless joking they arrived +at Charles XII’s Square, for Josef Marin had the fixed idea that he +must prophesy before Charles XII. But while he was prophesying, Gabel +caught the prettiest girl around the waist and began to waltz with her +around the statue, Moberg followed and trod a measure with an elderly +bacchante, and Martin stood with a pounding heart staring at a pale +little piece of mischief with eyes as black as charcoal and wondered if +he dared go up to her. But while he was wondering, Planius put an arm +around her waist and scampered off, and Martin stood alone and watched +them whirl about in the mist, pair after pair. But the morning breeze +from the south now began to clear the mist, driving it across the river +like white smoke, and the cross on St. Katarina’s cupola burned like +the morning star in the first rays of the dawn. + +A policeman loomed up from down by the docks and gradually came nearer, +one of the girls set up a cry of warning, and the crowd dispersed in +all directions. A stout nymph took Martin by the arm and went along +with him. + +«I must hold your arm, ducky,» she said, «or the cop will pull me in. +Besides, you might like to come home with me, eh? I’ve a right nice +place, you’ll see. I have a big lovely bed and sheets I embroidered +myself. I sit and embroider mornings mostly. One must have some fun for +oneself, and I can’t stand playing cards with mamma day out and day in +like the other girls, and they swear and carry on and act vulgar. I +don’t care about that sort of thing; I like nice agreeable boys like +you. If you’re real nice and come to me and come often, I’ll embroider +you a nightshirt for a keepsake----Oh, you haven’t any money! The +hell, you say; that’s another pair of galoshes! Then you must come +again when you have some. Just ask for Hulda. But tell me, is it true +there’s a girl at Upsala that’s called Charles XII?» + +[Illustration: Two people by streetlight] + +«Not that I know,» answered Martin. + +«Well, good-by then».... + +It was not quite true that Martin had no money; he still had a few +crowns left from the honorarium for a poem published in the _Home +Friend_ and had only made the excuse so as not to hurt Hulda’s feelings. + + + + +--V-- + + +Martin lay awake a long time, unable to sleep. It was the little pale +girl with the black eyes that left him no rest. She had stood there so +pale and still and lonely; she had not taken any one’s arm or laughed +or chattered like the others. She had surely been seduced and deserted; +she perhaps had a little child that would freeze or starve to death if +she didn’t get it food and clothes by selling her body. How he would +kiss her if he had her in his arms now, how he would caress her and +give her the tenderest names, so as to make her forget who she was, a +common street-walker, and who he was, a chance customer like all the +rest! With whom was she now? With Planius, maybe. What could Planius +be to her? He was no better looking than Martin and he was as stupid +as a codfish. He had been one of the worst grinds and had only had a +plain «graduated» on his certificate. Why should she pick out just him? +But she, to be sure, had made no choice; she had just taken the first +that came along. Martin understood this and found it quite natural. She +had given away her heart and soul and had no longer anything to give +but her body, so why should she deny that to any one when it was her +profession to sell it and when she had already got as deep in the mire +as a human being can get? Yet still, if Martin could meet her and she +could get to know him, perhaps she might become fond of him and begin a +new life. For her he would give up everything--all his dreams of poetic +fame and his future; he would choose some profession in which he could +immediately earn her and his upkeep; they would be married and live +far away from men in a little house by a lake deep in the woods. They +would row among the rushes in a little boat and dream away the hours, +they would land on an island and be together there all night, while the +stars burned above their heads. He would kiss away all sorrow, all dark +memories from her brow, and would be as fond of her little child as if +it was his own.... + +But while Martin let his fancy wander thus, he knew quite clearly at +the same time that under all these reveries lay nothing but desire--a +young man’s hunger for a woman’s white body. And the further on into +the night this lasted, while he lay awake and stared at the gray dawn +light trickling in through the blinds, the more bitterly he regretted +that he had said no to the other girl, the fat one. + + + + +--VI-- + + +When one asks a young man who has just passed his school examinations, +«What do you intend to be?» he cannot answer, «A poet.» People would +turn away their heads and put their hands over their mouths. He may +answer, a lawyer or a painter or a musician, for a man can train +himself for all these fields at some public institution, and even +in one’s apprenticeship one has a modest place in the community, a +profession to follow, one already _is_ something; a student at the +university, or a pupil in the art school or the conservatory. It is not +much, but still it is always a sop to throw to indiscreet questioners, +and a conceivable future to point to in the case of these more kindly +disposed. But he who is to become a poet is nothing but a mockery +before God and man until he is recognized and famous. He must therefore +during all his long prentice years hang a false sign over his door and +pretend to be busy at something that people consider respectable. + +This Martin realized, he found it perfectly natural and not to be +altered, and so when his father asked him what he was to be, he +answered not that he meant to become a poet but that he should like to +work as an extra in a government office. His father was pleased with +this answer, perceiving in it a sign that his son would be as sensible +and happy as himself. He had feared that Martin might want to go to +Upsala and study æsthetics and he felt within himself that he could +not have refused, but he trembled at all the outlay and trouble there +would be for a poor father of a family to keep a son at the university. +He was therefore delighted with the reply and had nothing to remark +except that Martin ought to try to enter not one office but as many as +possible. That evening he invited his son to go to Blanch’s café to +hear the music and drink toddy. + +But the very next day he put the affair in motion, speaking with his +acquaintances in various departments and helping Martin to write +applications. + + + + +--VII-- + + +Martin had to attend upon the chief of the bureau to which he most +desired to submit his services at eight o’clock in the morning in a +frock coat and white necktie. Cold and hungry, for he had not had +time to eat, he went up the steps of a quiet house in a fashionable +street and rang at the door of the general director. An attendant in +gold braid announced him and opened the door of a dark private room +with curtains only half up. Various articles of dress lay scattered +about here and there on the chairs, a great green laticlave hung on +the mirror, and at the threshold stood a chamber-pot, which he nearly +tripped over but checked himself in time and stood there making an +awkward bow. In the middle of the room stood a venerable old man in a +purple-red satin dressing-gown, gesticulating with a razor, his chin +covered with lather. Then out of the red satin and the white lather +proceeded a voice, which said: «You have a fine student certificate, +young gentleman, but don’t forget that honesty and diligence are and +will continue to be the highest requisites in government service. You +are accepted and may report tomorrow to begin your duties, if there is +anything to do. Above everything, be honest! Good-by.» + +Martin assumed that this discourteous injunction was in accord with +ancient custom and refused to be daunted. He went to the office of the +department, where he was given a place at a table and a thick ledger +to inspect. He added up column after column. If the figures came out +right, his duty was to put ticks in the margin; if they did not, he was +to make notes of the fact. But they always did come out right. Martin +gradually came to the conviction that there were never any mistakes in +these accounts, and when this conviction became rooted in him, he gave +up adding entirely and merely put in ticks. Sometimes he looked up from +his real or pretended work and listened to the buzzing of the flies +or the rain plashing on the windowpanes, or to the conversation and +grumbling of the older men, or to a blind man playing a flute in the +yard. + +And he said to himself, «So this is life.» + + + + +--VIII-- + + +But for Martin this was not life. For him it was a retreat, an asylum +in which he had sought repose for a time, which he hoped to make short. + +He read and thought. In books and in his own thoughts he searched for +what one so often seeks in youth in order to forget in age that one +has ever bothered about it: a faith to live by, a star to steer by, a +concord in things, a meaning, and a goal. + + * * * * * + +Martin had been a Christian up to his sixteenth year. It is natural +for a child to believe what his elders say is true. He had believed +everything and had not doubted, and on Sundays he had gone to church +with his parents. If the preacher was a good talker and a charlatan, +he felt edified and moved and wished he could become such a preacher; +but if it was an honest unassuming minister who preached as well as he +could without making any fuss or gesticulations, he generally went to +sleep. + +But when he was sixteen he was confirmed. Up to then religion had been +a detail of school work set side by side with other details; now it +became all of a sudden the one essential, that which daily demanded +his time and consideration. The question could not be appeased by +the thought: «This is just a matter of the emotions,» since it was +customary to weep when one «went forward.» It freely developed the +claim to be the highest of all, the dominant force in life, the one +thing that mattered. And Martin could not escape the discovery that +if religion was the truth, then it was right in this claim, the claim +to be above everything else, and he must devote all his powers and +his whole soul to it; he must become religious. But if it was not the +truth, then he must seek the truth wherever he could find it; he must +become a free-thinker. The course between, the Christianity of use and +custom such as is professed and believed in by the multitude, was to +him mere thoughtlessness and conventionality. This was an evasion which +seemed natural to him in most of his comrades, but it never occurred to +him to think that this was open to him. He stood at the parting of the +ways and had to choose. + +But one night when he lay awake pondering over this, unable to sleep, +while the moon shone straight into his room and the thoughts crowded +into his head, suddenly it stood clear to him that he did not believe. +It seemed to him that he had long realized the Christian religion was +something that no one could really believe if he wished to be honest +with himself. It became evident to him that the problem as to the +truth of Christianity was something which he had already gone past and +that it was actually a quite different problem which now disturbed +him: how was it possible that the others could believe in this when +he could not? By «the others» he meant not only his comrades--for +they did not seem to concern themselves any further in such matters, +and he knew besides that one could get them to believe in a little of +everything--but his parents, his teachers, all the grown-ups, who must +know more of life and the world than he did. How was it possible that +he, Martin Birck, who wasn’t sixteen yet and lay in a little iron bed +in the home of his parents, could think differently about the highest +and most important things than did old and experienced people, and how +could he be right and they wrong? This seemed to him almost as wildly +absurd as the faith he had just rejected. Here he was completely at a +loss; he couldn’t come to any solution. He got up out of bed and went +to the window. Snow was glittering white on the roofs, it was dark +in the houses, and the street lay empty. The moon stood high in the +heavens, but it was a gray-white winter moon, small and frost-bitten +and infinitely far away, and in the moon-haze the stars twinkled +sleepily and dully. Martin stood tracing with his finger on the pane. +«Give me a sign, God!» he whispered. Then he stood long at the window, +getting chilly and staring at the moon; he saw it glide in and become +hidden behind a black factory chimney and he saw it creep out again on +the other side. But he received no sign. + +In the depths of his heart he did not wish for a sign either, for he +felt that a conviction was something that one could not and should not +have as a gift by means of a miracle. To seek for truth and be honest +with oneself in the search, that was the one clue he could find. + +Martin supposed that confirmation and the first communion were duties +prescribed by law which he could not evade. His father had no different +conception, or if he had he did not say so, for he reverenced the +proverb: Speech is silver, silence is golden. Martin therefore went to +communion with the other neophytes. It was a spring day with sun and +tender green in the old trees of the churchyard, and when Martin heard +the bells roar and sing and the organ begin the processional hymn, his +eyes filled with tears and he grieved in his heart that he was not as +the others and could not believe and feel as they did. And when he saw +the church full of serious folk and heard the voice of the preacher +enjoining the young people from the pulpit to hold fast to the faith of +their fathers, he felt unrest and confusion through his inmost soul, +and again the question came to trouble him: «How is it possible that +all these can believe, and not I? It’s mad to think that I alone can +be right against all these and against all the dead who sleep in their +graves out there, who lived and died in the faith I reject. It’s mad, +it’s mad! I must conquer my reason and teach myself to believe.» But +when he came to the actual ceremonies and saw the ministers in their +surplices going back and forth before the altar, while they dispensed +the bread and wine and carried napkins over their arms like waiters, +he felt faint and disgusted and could not understand that he had let +himself be fooled into such mummery. And although he knew or believed +that these ministers who shuffled about there in the gloom were in +everyday life about as honest as most people, they seemed to him at +that moment shameless hypocrites. + +Belief in a God and in a life after this was what Martin had left at +this time of his childhood faith. But his god was no longer a fatherly +god who listened to prayers and nodded approval if they were needful +and intelligent, or shook his head if they were childish and stupid. +His god had become cold as ice and remote as the moon he had stood +staring at on the winter’s night, and Martin ceased saying his evening +prayer, for he did not believe there was anyone who heard it. Then +finally came the day when Martin realized that what he had been calling +god these last days was something with which no human being could come +into any relation either of love or obedience or opposition, something +which could only have the name of god by a wanton play of words and a +misuse of the incompleteness of language. + +And when he examined his belief in immortality, he soon found that he +had got far away from the blue heaven of his childhood. He had observed +that all who on any ground other than that of revelation preserved +their belief in a life after this also assumed a life before this, +and he found such an assumption both natural and logical. Only that +is eternal which has always existed. What has come into being will +sometime cease to be: such was the law for everything existent. But +Martin had no memory of any earlier existence, nor had he either read +or heard tell of any one who had with any gleam of probability given it +out that he remembered any such state. There were, to be sure, people +who asserted that they recalled their preëxistence, but they regularly +maintained that they had been some historic personage of whom they +had read in books during their present life: _e.g._, Julius Caesar or +Gregory VII. Only rarely could any one remember having been a slave or +a waiter or a shop-clerk. This circumstance appeared peculiar. In any +event it was clear that the great majority of people, and Martin among +them, had not the slightest recollection of any previous existence. +He concluded from this that neither in a future life would he be +able to remember anything of the present, that indeed he would not +be able to verify his own identity; and he found that if one called +such an existence immortality, it was again--as in the question of +God--a weakness of thought, a play with the imperfection of language, +and nothing else. And it struck him as even more bizarre to give +such a name to the passage of the dead body into living nature, into +plants and animals and air and water. He had no mind for such kinds of +word-play. + +Things went on in this way so that Martin set out in life without any +other belief than that he would grow up, get old and die like a tree in +the ground, as his forefathers had done, and that the green earth which +he saw with his eyes was his only home in the world and the only space +in which it was given him to live and act. And among the many dreams +he composed about his life was that in which he was to become like +a great and beautiful tree by the wayside with rich foliage, giving +coolness and shelter to many. He wished to create happiness and beauty +around him and to clear away illusions; he meant to speak and write so +that all would have to perceive at once that he was right. To be sure +he was not quite certain that truth in itself could produce happiness, +but history had taught him that illusion created unhappiness and crime. +Like pestilences the various religions had passed over the world, and +he was astounded when he thought of all the desolation with which +Christianity had marked its way through times and peoples. But he +believed in full confidence that its days were reckoned, that he lived +at the dawn of a new time, and he wanted to play his part in thought +and poetry toward breaking the road for what was to come. + +At the time when Martin believed and thought thus it still occurred +to him that life, no matter how short and unstable it was, had +nevertheless a sort of meaning. He felt himself to be in a state of +development and growth; every day new truths arose before his mind +and new beauty before his senses during his long lonely wanderings +to the edge of the city or in the woods when spring had begun. And +spring.... At that time spring was still a real spring--not a disease, +an intoxication, a fever in the blood, in which all old half-forgotten +yearning and regret rises to the surface and says: «Look, here I am! +Do you recognize me? I have slept long but I am not dead.» Nothing +of that sort, but an awakening, a morning, a murmur in the air, +and a resounding song. And at that time the thousand unsatisfied +desires which he bore within him were like so many shimmering hopes +and half-uttered promises, for no long years of emptiness and +disappointment had yet managed to sharpen them into cutting knives +which wounded and tore at the soul. And if he did not believe that +all these obligations, or even most of them, would be redeemed by +life, they were still like bribing possibilities, like a lever for +dreams without goal or bounds; and even at the moment when the book +he held in his hand or the experience he had had in the course of the +day whispered warnings in his ear and advised him not to believe in +happiness, these dreams were woven into a longing without bitterness +and a melancholy as luminous as a spring twilight. + +Nevertheless these warnings came ever more closely together, and ever +more often it happened that in the midst of the dreams youthful blood +conjured up he caught himself listening to the other voice, the voice +that welled up from the depths of the oldest times and was echoed in +the newest books of the day, the strange voice that none of the hundred +new gospels which periodically as equinoctial storms had blown through +the minds of men could silence for more than a brief moment, the voice +which said: «All is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun.» +Why was he alive, and what was the meaning of it all? He did not cease +to ask himself these questions, for he still continuously demanded of +the life which he saw with his eyes that there should be something +behind it, something which could be called life’s meaning. For most +of the happiness which he saw men possess and that which he saw them +strive for seemed to him like the fairy gold in the story, to be +withered leaves, or it appeared to him like nice playthings, something +not to be taken seriously. If he turned his gaze to his own life as +he lived it from day to day, he could not escape the thought that in +itself it was miserable and empty and that its only worth lay in the +uncertain hope that it would not remain as it was. But what he hoped +for was not something that one could approach step by step with work +and patience and a hundred small sacrifices--competence and respect +and that sort of thing--what he hoped for was something indefinite and +indescribable: a sunrise, a break-up of the ice, an awakening from a +painful and purposeless dream. + +For it was like a painful and purposeless dream that his life appeared +when he looked at it with waking eyes and found it filled with shabby +joy, with vulgar sorrow and ignoble anxiety. Now and then he wrote +some poems and stories to earn a little money and to prove how far +his words could follow his thoughts, but with every new year all he +had written in the old seemed to him childish and worthless, and he +felt that nothing would amount to anything which could not fill him +completely with the joy of creation. Beyond this he fulfilled almost +automatically the sum of actions, or more properly gestures, which +usually characterize a young man in a government office or to which +other circumstances may lead. He went to his work as late in the day as +possible and left as early as propriety allowed. He made acquaintance +with his fellow employees and shared in their amusements. He drank +punch, ate suppers, and visited cheap girls of the streets; he loved +music and often sat at the opera among the blackamoors and musical +enthusiasts of the upper gallery, and he sang quartettes and took his +reward in double file when an old school superintendent hung the gilded +tin funnel on a rose-colored ribbon around his neck with paternal hands. + +And he said to himself: «No, I’m dreaming. This is not life.» + + + + +--IX-- + + +Years passed. + +... Martin was roaming about in the twilight. The streets and squares +lay white, snow was falling softly and silently. A man went in front of +him on a zigzag course lighting a lamp here and a lamp there. + +Martin went along without a purpose; he hardly knew where he went. + +Suddenly he noticed that he was crying as he walked. He did not clearly +know why. He did not ordinarily find it easy to cry. Some snowflakes +must have caught in his eyelashes, and his eyes had got wet.... He +turned off into a side street and came to a bit of park, he brushed +past a couple half snowed in on a bench, and proceeded on among the +trees, where it was lonely and empty and the branches drooped heavily +under the wet snow. + +... Strange! A hovel in an alley, a smoking lamp. Two naked arms which +bent and reached forward to the window, and the sound of curtains +coming down. The girl, who was humming the latest popular tune while +she slowly and unconcernedly hung up her red bodice--he hummed too so +as not to speak aloud--was she pretty or ugly? He did not know, he had +hardly set eyes on her. It was not she for whom he longed. + +[Illustration: Man reading at desk] + +He had sat at home in the dusk, the icy blue dusk of a March afternoon, +twisting and turning over an old poem that never would get itself +finished. Then all at once he had begun to think of a woman. He had met +her at noon as he came from his work, and he had felt the encounter as +a sudden intoxication. She was walking in the full sunlight, and many +men turned their heads after her as she went. But she seemed to notice +or suspect nothing. She was very young--eighteen or possibly twenty. +She was neither expensively nor humbly dressed, but she carried her +head carelessly and easily, perhaps too a little proudly. Slender and +straight, she went on her way, her brown hair shining in the sunlight, +and now and then she smiled to herself. He followed her at a distance; +she went up to Östermalm and vanished at last in a gateway. + +So it was that she had come before his mind again in the twilight, as +he sat in his rocking-chair and hunted for rhymes; and she left him no +rest--he threw down his pen and went out. There was no longer sunshine; +it was snowing. He came to the large gray house where he had seen her +go in; he walked to and fro on the pavement directly opposite and saw +a window light up here and a window there. Who was she? He remembered +he had seen her speak to a man he knew. He went up the steps and read +the names on the doors, until at last, deciding that he was childish +and stupid, he pulled up his coat collar and went back into the snow. +He took by the arm the first girl that gave him a meaningful glance and +went home with her. + +Now he was standing there in her room. He stood stiffly and silently +surveying her as she took off her clothes and chatted and hummed. He +hardly asked himself whether she was pretty. He only knew that she +might have been prettier without tempting him more and uglier without +tempting him less. She showed the marks of her calling. She was still +young, and yet one saw that she had long ago tired of choosing and +rejecting among her customers. With the same habitual motions of her +hand, the coarse hand of a working girl, she hung up her vulgar bodice +for any one who asked it of her, for lieutenant or clerk, minister of +justice or waiter, making no distinction between them unless possibly +that in her heart she preferred the waiter, since he was less haughty +than the others and understood her better. + +Whence did she come? Perhaps from a back yard with an ash barrel and a +privy, perhaps from a village in the woods. The latter seemed likelier; +there was still something of the wood girl in her eyes. Glad among +other glad children, she had run bare-legged on the slopes and picked +strawberries. Early her contemporaries had taught her to bite of the +forbidden fruit. So she had come to the city and had fared as did +many others. It was perhaps not a necessity in itself; she might have +become a workman’s wife if she had wanted, but she had decided that +their lot was harder and without much thinking had gone the way that +was smoothest to her feet. With a little more intelligence and better +luck she might also have become a tradesman’s wife, such as goes to the +square with her maid and bargains for her boiled beef and horse-radish. + +«Well,» she said, «aren’t you going to undress?» + +He stared at her fixedly, and suddenly had no idea of the whole thing, +why he had come and what he wanted of her. He muttered something about +not feeling very well, laid several crowns on the dressing-table, and +departed. She didn’t get angry, only looked surprised and didn’t throw +any taunt down the stairs after him. + + * * * * * + +It snowed continuously. Would it never end, this winter? It was now +getting on to the end of March, the trees drooped with the snow and it +was bitterly cold.... + +Martin was weary, he sat on a bench under one of the white trees and +let the snow deposit itself in drifts on his hat and shoulders. + +«What are we doing with life, we mortals?» + +The life he led, the pitiful joy he sought and sometimes found, seemed +to him at that moment like the fantasy of a madhouse. Nevertheless +that life was the normal life. Most of the men he knew lived thus. He +was twenty-three. In the four or five years he had been in the game he +ought to have got used to it.... + +No, he didn’t understand humanity nor did he understand himself. He +often listened to the talk of his friends and acquaintances about these +things. He had noted that the most respectable of the young men, and +of the old for that matter, believed in two kinds of love, a pure kind +and a sensual kind. Young women of the better sort were to be loved +with the pure kind, but that meant betrothal and marriage, and that one +could seldom afford. As a rule, therefore, it was only girls of means +who could inspire a pure love; outside of that the feeling was more at +home in lyric poetry than in reality. The other sort, on the contrary, +the sensual, a man might and should possess about once a week. But +this side of existence was not considered to have a serious meaning; +it was not anything that could render a man happy or unhappy; it was +simply comic, the material for funny stories, an equally pleasant +and hygienic diversion when one had received his salary and drunk his +bottle of punch. But in the intervals the entire sexual life interested +but slightly the respectable and decent class of men; they found its +functions unbeautiful and disreputable, or, as they otherwise put it, +bestial, since they could not exercise them without feeling themselves +like beasts. + +This was the prevalent opinion throughout the community, and such +conditions were explained in that this way of living was the healthiest +and wisest, not of course in the sermons of the clergy, the speeches +of the politicians, or the leading articles of the newspapers, but +in the enlightened judgment between man and man in all circles. It +was considered necessary in order that young men might preserve their +health and good spirits and that young women of the better classes +might preserve their virtue. The young men accordingly drank punch, +visited girls of the streets, became fat and florid, and succeeded +not only in putting up with this life as with a sort of wretched +substitute, but it appealed to them to such a degree that often even +after they were married they did not scorn to make excursions to their +old haunts, which had become so endeared. The girls of the better class +meanwhile were allowed to preserve their virtue and beyond that were +not asked for their opinion, but for some of them their precious jewel +became at last too heavy to carry.... + +«What have we done with our life, we mortals? + +«Happiness, the joy of youth, whither has it gone? Life is regulated +for the old, therefore it is a misfortune to be young. It is regulated +for the thoughtless and stupid, for those who take the false for the +true or even prefer the false, because it is a disease to think and +feel, a childish disease which one must go through before one becomes a +man.»... + +The apparition of a woman glided slowly past the bench where he sat, +and scarcely had it passed when it stood still, turned its head, and +fixed upon him two great dark eyes. + +He rose, shook off the snow, and went away. + +He walked quickly, for he was cold. + +He thought about life and books. During his adolescence a new +literature had broken forth, which was at war with the prevalent morals +of the community and endeavored to change them. Now it had grown +silent. Little had been accomplished, almost nothing, and already +it was losing its hold. What the new writers had fought for and in +behalf of which they had taken and given such hard blows now suddenly +belonged to the «’Eighties» and as such had once for all been tried +and condemned, weighed in the balance and found too heavy. Instead the +blue flower of poetry exhaled its perfume around him as never before. +Once again the old words rang like new; earth returned to the golden +age, the woods and waters were filled afresh with centaurs and nymphs, +knights and damsels roamed into the sunset, and Song herself, with +eyes wide awake and bright after her long sleep, stood forth again in +the midst of the people and chanted as she had not done in a hundred +years. Martin loved this poetry, its rhythms and words stole into the +verses he himself sat and tinkered with in the dusk, and yet all this +was strangely foreign to him. The world was just the same all the +while, everything went its usual way, and no victory was won. Was this +the time to sing? It was true that, when he looked more closely, he +discovered ideas at the bottom of this new poetry also, and these ideas +too were in open warfare against current morality. But only a few +readers noted this and hardly any one attached any importance to it. It +was just verse. + +It was verse, and as a form for ideas poetry was and remained on about +the level of the royal opera. There too the baritone might bellow +against tyrants without thereby running any risk of missing his Vasa +decoration, there too seduction scenes were played by artificial light +without any one’s taking umbrage; what in ordinary life was called by +ordinary citizens bestial was conceived of by the same people with +regard to «Faust» and «Romeo and Juliet» as poetic and pretty and +thoroughly suitable for young girls. It was the same with poetry. +Ideas, when woven into verse and beautiful words, were no longer +contraband; they were not even noticed. + +Would a man never come who did not sing, but spoke, and spoke plainly! + + * * * * * + +He had come out on Strand Avenue. The ice on Nybro Inlet had just been +broken, a tug was now forcing its painful way along between the cakes +of ice. To the left several newly built millionaire barracks towered up +in the snowy mist, in one of which the electric lights and polished +glass prisms already gleamed from a long suite of rooms, and in a large +hall a white shimmering maze of dancing couples moved behind the muslin +curtains. + +Several lonely wanderers had paused in a group as if rooted to stare +at the paradise above them. Martin also stopped a minute and proceeded +with his thoughts. Several measures of the waltz had reached his ears; +it was the «Blue Danube»; he walked on humming it and couldn’t get it +out of his head. + +O Eros, Eros! The harlot’s room and the festal hall up there.... In +both temples the same god was worshiped, and in both temples he was +worshiped by the same men. But the women! + +He did not dance, and yet he loved balls. He enjoyed standing in a +doorway and watching the others whirl by. What atmosphere was there +around all their festivals of youth which fascinated him and made him +meditative and sick with longing after the impossible? Look at the +women! Held close in the arms of the men, with eyes half-shut and +mouths open, the most innocent young girls flitted past in dresses +which exposed or emphasized their young panting bosoms. What were they +thinking of, what were they dreaming of? There were some no doubt who +thought of nothing, dreamed of nonsense, and had no other longing than +to stir their legs and keep in motion, regular young girls after the +hearts of their mothers and aunts. But they were surely not all so. The +daughters of men could not have changed so extraordinarily since the +not too remote times when youths and maidens carried phallic images +in procession, singing holy songs. What did they talk about, these +young girls, when they sat together and whispered in a corner? «She is +secretly engaged to him»; «He’s in love with her, but she’s fond of +someone else.» What was in the books they read? The same thing: People +who were in love with each other, and how it turned out, and who got +whom. To «get,» what did that mean? That one found out on the bridal +night. + +But the years passed, and the bridal might have to wait. The young girl +got to be twenty-five, she was nearly thirty, and still she danced at +balls with half-closed eyes, but her mouth was no longer open; she +now knew that this looked unseemly, so she held it convulsively shut, +a blood-red streak. Would it never come, the great, the wonderful +experience? Her glance was that of a drowning woman. «Save me, I’m +sinking, I’m going under! Youth is so short. Look! my color is already +fading, my bosom is sinking in, and my young flower is withering!» She +tried being provocative and bold, she was afraid she had been too timid +before, perhaps that was not the right way.... But the gentlemen were +already laughing at her covertly when they drank healths over their +punch, and some of them mocked her in public. Others understood her +better and thought within themselves that she might make a good wife +and an ardent mistress. But they had no desire to marry, and to seduce +a girl of family would be a risky business. When they left the ball +they could easily and without any ado find the way to their old place, +to the room with the smoking lamp, or with a red night-lamp hanging +from the ceiling. + +«What are we doing with our lives, we men, and what are we doing with +_theirs_?» + + * * * * * + +Martin turned back into the city. + +On a street corner he met a poet, who was freezing in a thin +yellow-green ulster. He was a few years older than Martin and already a +bit famous, for he wrote with fabulous ease the loveliest verses on any +theme, mostly about girls and flowers and June nights on the lowlands +of Scania, whence he had come. He had a pale face and a thin red beard; +and when he met a fellow-artist, his great childlike eyes took on a +wild and staring expression, as if he were considering within himself: +«Shall I murder him, or shall we go in somewhere and consume alcohol?» + +They went up to the «Anglais» and drank green chartreuse. + +The poet talked about himself. He confided to Martin that he was a +decadent. He worshiped everything that was disintegrating, rotten at +the core, and doomed to destruction. He hated the sun and light--here +he shook a clenched fist at the gas candelabra on the ceiling--he loved +the night and sin and all alcoholic drinks of a green shade. He had +most of the well-known venereal diseases and an insane fear of crowded +squares. Nothing in the world could make him go diagonally across +Gustavus Adolphus Place. This disease gave him a very special pleasure, +for he took it as the forerunner of general paralysis. And general +paralysis was the great sleep; it was nirvana. + +Martin listened absently. «Light is good,» he said to himself, «and +darkness is good too. But sometimes darkness is bad, and light too.» + +«But how is it,» he asked, «that your poems are really not in any +essential way different from those which generally get the prize in the +Academy?» + +At these words the poet’s glance darkened, his lips suddenly became +thin and narrow. He took a dirty sheath-knife from his pocket, pulled +it halfway out, and laid his index finger on the bare blade. + +«How deep can you stand cold steel?» he asked. + +«You misunderstand me entirely,» said Martin, laying his hand calmingly +on the other’s arm. «I love your poems. Only I don’t see rightly the +connection between them and your inner life as you have just pictured +it.» + +The poet laughed. + +«It’s amusing to hear that you love my poems,» he said. «The things +I’ve allowed to be published up to now, you see, are mere skits. Good +enough for the mob. Look here!»... + +He took a newspaper clipping from his pocket, a review of his last +volume signed by a well-known critic. This authority mildly deplored +that some of the poems could not be acquitted of a certain tinge of +sensualism which gave an unpleasing effect. In others again the poet +struck purer tones, such as were fitted to give rich promise for the +future. + +«Well, that was quite friendly,» observed Martin, when he had read it. + +«Friendly!» The poet again made a convulsive grab in his pocket where +the knife lay. «Friendly, you say? Shouldn’t such an insect creep in +the dust before the wretchedest of my poems?» + +«Oh, yes,» said Martin, «yes, naturally; but since it isn’t the custom +for older folks with younger----» + +The poet was silent, took a drink, then was silent a long while. + +Martin drank too. The strong green liquor burned in his palate and his +brain. Thereupon the woman of the morning was there, the one who walked +in the sunlight and smiled. Was she asleep now, did she dream, did she +smile in her dreams? Or did she twist about sleepless on her bed in +longing for a man? + +Should he write to her? He could easily find out her name. No. She +would only show the letter to her friends, and they would titter and +laugh.... + +[Illustration: Man at table with bottles] + +The café was nearly empty. In the farthest corner a regular customer +sat alone behind a newspaper. In a mirror on the opposite wall was +the vision of an old gentleman with white whiskers and a red silk +handkerchief sticking out of his breast-pocket. He was fat and red and +white, red by nature and white with powder, and as he leaned his chest +and arms against the bar, he looked like a sphinx. + +The poet emitted a sigh. Martin studied him: the face of a child under +the red-bearded mask of a pirate. It occurred to him that he had +possibly hurt this man’s feelings just now, and he felt the need of +saying something agreeable. + +«Do you know,» he said, «if you shaved off your beard you would +certainly look like the most profligate kind of monk?» + +The poet brightened up. + +«I dare say you’re right,» he said, trying to get a look at himself +in a mirror. «What’s more, I’ve written poems with a leaning toward +Catholicism. You ought to read my poems sometime, the real ones, the +ones that can’t be printed.» + +«Surely,» said Martin. «Where do you live?» + +The poet declared that he didn’t live anywhere. He hadn’t had any +dwelling-place for three weeks, and he didn’t need any. He wrote +his poems on the table of the café and slept with girls. In the +house of one of them he had his green-edged traveling bag with some +extra collars and the poems of Verlaine, and there too were his own +manuscripts. + +Martin began to be really impressed, but he found no outlet for his +thoughts, and silence once more spread itself between the two whom +chance had driven together on a street corner. + +The clock struck twelve, the gas was turned half down, and the poet, +feeling the approach of inspiration with the darkness, began to write +verses on the table. + +Martin said good night. + + * * * * * + +Sture Square lay white and empty. The snow had ceased, the moon was +up, and it was more bitterly cold than ever. To the east a new street +without houses opened like a great hole in a wall. To the west a +snow-covered jumble of old shanties and stone gables was spread out in +the misty moonlight, and from one of the streets of sin which slunk +between them echoed a woman’s laugh and the sound of a gate being +opened and shut. + + + + +--X-- + + +It was late when Martin came home, and he was dead tired but could +not sleep. Black butterflies fluttered before his eyes, and thoughts +and rhythms came to him as he lay and stared into the dark. He +raised himself in bed and relighted the candle on his bedside table, +where paper and pen were at hand as always. He felt no feverish +overexcitement, only a deep weariness, which pained him but did not +delude. He saw clearly where his thought wavered and needed the support +of a rhythm, a bit of melody; he changed and erased, and finally a poem +evolved. + + You up yonder + Who are deaf and dumb! + You up yonder, + Who with your right hand squeeze + The fresh and sweetly-smelling fruit of Good + And with your left constrict + The poison-dripping maggot nest of Ill, + Looking upon them + With equal satisfaction! + You up yonder, + Whose glance is dim + With all the emptiness of space-- + I have a prayer to you. + + One prayer, but one, + Which you can never hear + And cannot fulfill: + Teach me, + Teach me to forget + I ever met your glance. + For look! + In youthful days + I myself made a god + In mine own image, + A warm and living and aggressive god, + And on a spring day I went out + To seek for him through all the world and heavens. + Not him I found, + But you. + Not life’s divinity + But death’s I found under the mask of life. + + Take the memory of the sight of you + Away, O horrible One! That memory is + A hidden sickness, is a worm that gnaws + My life-tree’s root. + I know it well, with every barren year + And every day that runs in vain + It gnaws yet closer to my being’s nerve. + It gnaws and preys upon + All that in me which is of human worth, + All that which dares, all that which wills and works; + Nor does it spare + The wondrous, brittle time-piece of the soul + Which points out Good and Ill. + + Speak, you up yonder, + Is it your will + To re-create me after your own image? + Was that the meaning hidden in your word: + «He who hath seen God, he must die the death»? + O horrible One, + Have you the heart to infect + Me, a poor child of men, + With your immortal vices? + + + + +--XI-- + + +The afternoon sun fell across the writing table and gilded everything: +the inkstand, the books, and the words he wrote on the paper. The smoke +from the chimneys rose straight and tranquilly toward heaven, and in a +window just opposite a young Jewess was playing with her child. + +Martin was writing to his sister: + + Dear Maria: + + Thanks for your letter. Mamma is poorly as usual, perhaps a little + better these last weeks. Papa keeps the same, only he gets more + silent every year. It’s very quiet here at home, for as you know + I am not one either to love idle talk. Silence is golden. Uncle + Janne, Aunt Louise, etc., are still, unfortunately, alive and in + health, though it doesn’t make much difference anyhow, since we are + not likely to be their heirs. But they are always annoying me by + asking about the prospects of my work, whether papa isn’t in line + for the Order of Vasa soon, whether it’s true that your husband + takes morphine, and so on. Otherwise there is no harm in them. + + You ask whether I’m writing much just now. No, very little, but on + the other hand I have an appointment for a long job as amanuensis, + and last night I dreamed very clearly and distinctly that papa and + I got an Order of Vasa together, since the king couldn’t manage to + give us each one. + + Thanks for the invitation to come to you in the summer, but it’s + not likely I can get off--my appointment will last over the summer. + Too bad your husband is nervous. Nice your little boy is well. + Remember me to all. + + Your brother Martin. + +He put the letter in an envelope and laid it aside. + +He sat and thought about his sister. + +«Is she happy?» he asked himself. And he was forced to answer: «No, +she is not happy. She does not perhaps know it herself. Six years ago +she was very happy, when she was married and became a doctor’s wife +and had her own little home in the country to look after--just what +she had most dreamed of. She hasn’t had any sudden fall from the peak +of happiness since then. She has just very quietly slipped down, as +usually happens with the years. Her husband is amiable and talented and +a clever doctor, but he offends the rich people in his district and has +most of his practice among the poor. Therefore he is sometimes hard up. +Besides, I am afraid his health is undermined and his disposition is +sometimes rather bitter. However, he was in very good humor when he +was up here last alone, without her. He amused himself as well as he +could, and I fear he was a bit unfaithful. + +«A curious bird, happiness....» + +During these thoughts Martin had begun again to write. He wrote slowly +and half in play, with an intention here and there yet without exactly +knowing whither he was tending. + +«You do not know me. I met you one day in the sunlight. It is weeks, +yes, months since then. You went on the side of the street where the +sun shone; you went alone with head lowered and smiled to yourself. + +«It was one of those days when the snow was beginning to melt on the +street and the pavement shone wet and bright. You stopped at the corner +of a street, greeted an old lady and conversed with her. The old lady +was very ugly and very stupid, and I imagine too a little cross, as +stupid people generally are. But when you looked at her and talked with +her, she at once grew less cross and less ugly. + +«A little farther up the street a gentleman saluted you, and you bowed +and returned his greeting. I felt my heart become bitter with envy, +and I followed him with my glance as he went on down the street. But +one could not see it in him that he had just spoken to you. One could +rather believe he was a lieutenant who had just saluted a major. + +«I have met you often since then. You do not know me, and it is not +likely that you will ever know who I am. You go in the sunlight, I go +for the most part in the shadow. I am dressed like many other men, and +I always avoid looking at you so that you see it. No, you cannot find +out who I am. + +«You have a lamp with a yellow shade. Yesterday you stood long at the +window in the yellow glow, after you had lighted the lamp, looking at +the stars. You went to the window to pull down the curtains, but you +forgot about it a little while. Straight in front of your window was a +star which burned more brightly than the rest. I could not see it, for +I stood shut in by a little black gate opposite the house where you +live; but I know that on spring evenings it stands just so that you +must see it from your window. It is Venus. + +«You do not know me, and I do not know you otherwise than I do the +women who sometimes give me the great joy of visiting me at night in +my dreams. It is therefore I speak to you so intimately. But among +these women you have for some time been the only one, the others have +forsaken me, nor do I feel any longing after them. + +«Read this letter and think no more of it; burn it, if you will, or +hide it at the bottom of your little secret drawer, if you will. Read +it and think no more of it, go out as before in the sunlight and smile +in your own happy thoughts. But you are not to show it to your friends +and let them giggle and snicker over it. If you do that, for three +nights in a row you will not be able to sleep for bad dreams, and a +little devil from hell will sit on the edge of your bed and look at you +from evening till morning. + +«But I know you will not do such a thing--you will not show it to any +one. Good night, my beloved, good night!» + +Martin sat long with this letter in his hand. «What could it lead to if +I sent it?» he asked himself. «To nothing, presumably. It would set her +imagination off a bit, her young girl’s longing would perhaps have an +impulse toward the new and unknown. She might perhaps bring herself to +show the letter to her friends, seeing that faith in devils is on the +wane; but she wouldn’t go so far as to burn it. She might perhaps be +amused with it, she might even consider it her duty to feel offended. +But in reality it would in the long run cause her joy, and if in the +process of nature she was married and had children and grew old with +household cares and every year sunk deeper down in the inconsolable +monotony of existence, she would come to remember this letter and +wonder who wrote it and if perhaps it was there that the true seed of +happiness lay hid. And she would never once recall that it ever made +her angry. Nor as a matter of fact does it contain anything that could +properly hurt her. It shows her only that she is desired by a man, and +as she is twenty and from head to foot an uncommonly beautiful and +glorious creation of nature, she must already have noticed that men +desire her. And that doesn’t at all make her angry, but on the contrary +happy and joyous, and that is why she walks in the sunlight and smiles.» + +Amid such thoughts he sat a long while weighing the letter in his +hand as if it had been a human destiny, till in the end he found +his hesitation ridiculous, put the letter in an envelope of thick +untransparent paper, and wrote the address in a thin and non-committal +girlish style so as not to rouse any curiosity in the young lady’s +family. Without revealing any special interest on his part he had +succeeded in learning her name. She was a Miss Harriet Skottë. Her +father had an estate in the country, in the Malar district, and she +was now spending the winter in Stockholm with some relatives to study +something or other, French or art-tapestry or something of the sort ... +in order to get engaged, to put it briefly. + +Harriet Skottë. He repeated the name to himself and tried to analyze +the impression it evoked. He dwelt in particular on the forename and +murmured, «Harriet, Harriet.» But this gave him no impression of her +nature; it roused only an indefinite conception of something English +and pale and blonde, a sensation of tea fumes and benevolence and +chilly bedrooms with varnished floors as at a hospital. The surname, +again, only suggested family, an uncle who was on the Board of Trade, +and a cousin who was a lieutenant in the Army Service Corps. But if he +whispered to himself the whole name, «Harriet Skottë,» there came in a +new element which quite excluded the others, then it became something +quite different and new, then he felt as if she herself passed through +the room with her brown hair glinting in a sunbeam. + + * * * * * + +He started at the ringing of the hall bell; he heard the maid open the +front door and a familiar voice asking if he was at home. He stuffed +the letter into his pocket. The next instant the door opened and Henrik +Rissler stood in the doorway blinking at the sunlight, whose copper-red +rays struck horizontally across the room. + + + + +--XII-- + + +Henrik Rissler had come down from Upsala. He had just taken his +preliminary degree and in a couple of weeks was to make a tour down +in Europe while he wrote his thesis, «On Romantic Irony.» He had no +independent means, but his uncle--a bank lawyer, politician, and +millionaire--had offered to pay for the trip. This Martin already knew +from Henrik’s letters. But before he started he was to rest a few +weeks. He was somewhat overworked, for he had studied hard so as to get +away from Upsala as soon as possible, and he had also taken extra time +to write some critical studies for a magazine and so become a little +better known among the score or so of men who interested themselves in +such things. + +Martin had been expecting him for a couple of days and had a bottle of +wine and a pack of cigarettes ready. + +Henrik shaded his eyes from the sun and said: «Here everything is the +same. Here time has stood still.» + +«Yes, in this immediate region,» answered Martin. «Only they have built +a big factory chimney over opposite. It has been quite a diversion for +me in solitude. For a while I worked in competition with the masons, +but I was beaten. I began on a poem when they had just begun on the +chimney; now the chimney is done, but not the poem. It’s beautiful, +what’s more--the chimney, I mean. Especially in the evening as a +silhouette. The smoke no longer belches out, one forgets its purpose; +it is no longer a chimney, it is a pillar tower built by some Chaldæan +prince and priest, who mounts it when night comes on and measures the +course of the stars.» + +«Yes,» said Henrik, «one forgets the purpose, then first it becomes +beautiful.» + +«No,» replied Martin, «it doesn’t become beautiful because one forgets +its purpose, but because one invents for it another which has the +prestige of old and venerable poetic tradition. But outside of that, +in and for themselves, without any fancification, factory chimneys are +among the most beautiful of modern structures. They promise less than +they make good, and at least they are no masquerade figures either in +Gothic or Renaissance.» + +Henrik smiled. «You’re talking in the style of the ‹’Eighties,›» he +said. + + * * * * * + +Henrik Rissler sat in his old place in the sofa corner, Martin sat +in the rocking-chair at the writing table. They were drinking wine +and talking about Upsala, about books and women, and about a new +philosopher by the name of Nietzsche. And as they talked, the sunbeam +in which the motes danced like red sparks grew ever narrower and more +oblique and more decidedly red. + +Martin surveyed Henrik. He found him changed; his face was leaner, +stronger, and more masculine in contour. Why had he said, «Here +everything is the same, here time has stood still»? He had had an +experience, but what? He was in love presumably; he would perhaps go so +far as to get engaged--to whom? Was it his cousin Anna Rissler? She was +fond of him and he knew it. No, that couldn’t be. Was it Maria Randel, +or Sigrid Tesch? + +«It’s curious,» observed Henrik. «Have you felt the same thing?--how +painful it is to search for old associations and not to find them. To +read over a book one has been fond of, or hear an opera into which one +has formerly been able to put everything imaginable and a bit more--and +sit empty-handed, wondering where it has all gone to!» + +«Yes,» Martin agreed, «it’s a strange, oppressive feeling. One feels as +if it was one’s duty to stick to the past, as if one were committing +an infidelity.... And one can do nothing. Why is it really so painful? +Is it perhaps because there is no plaintiff in the suit, no clearly +formulated claim to meet? For the plaintiff is not the book or the +music which one has lost touch with, not the mood which shrinks away; +the plaintiff is one’s old self, and that is dead and buried, it is +supplanted and refuted by the new, it has no plea to make and yet +it does make a sort of plea. Therein lies the paradox, and there is +nothing as vexatious as a paradox, when it is not comic.» + +Henrik took up the thread. + +«Yes, you are right; it is between the old and the new self that the +battle is, and as long as there is a new which is the stronger, one can +always master the phantoms. There is a continuous growth. The old goes, +the new comes--or the old goes, that’s really the one certain thing, +for how long can one be sure whether the new will come in its place? +Suppose the supply should stop some day, suppose nothing under the sun +should be new any more, and one only became poorer with every year and +every day that passed!» + +«Yes,» said Martin, «that sort of thing happens sometimes. And there +are cases then in which a man digs up the oldest, the deadest, and most +withered thing in his past and begins to worship it anew without seeing +the caricature. That’s nearly the worst of all. Better the old saying: +poor but proud.» + +They sat silent a few minutes. The sun had gone, and still it was not +twilight yet. It was almost brighter in the room than just before; +everything in it had merely become suddenly pale. + +Henrik broke the silence. + +«Yes,» he said, «it’s a melancholy feeling to grow out of oneself and +one’s old associations--but what’s it matter so long as one grows? And +what is melancholy, anyhow, if it isn’t what the rowdy said of the +toothbrush, a new kind of amusement invented by the upper classes? +But the melancholy is only there when it’s a matter of associations +and music and ideas. It was really something else I’ve been thinking +of all the time. I’ve been thinking of love and women. If one comes +into that province, it isn’t only just melancholy any longer; no, one +can’t get off so cheaply. A man is fond of a woman. He wants the whole +of eternity to be in that feeling. And yet he can’t escape reflecting +that this emotion must be subordinate to the same law of growth as +everything else in the world, that some day he will weary of what he +loves just as one wearies of the moonlight music in ‹Faust.› I have +not had many love affairs, but, believe me, I have never even in my +imagination begun the game otherwise than with the thought: may she be +the first to tire, and not I!» + +«I’m afraid that prayer will not be often uttered,» said Martin. «To +be sure both a lover and a married man may be betrayed, but it rarely +happens that they wish to be.» + +«Still I’m ashamed of the prayer, for I know it comes straight from +my heart’s great cowardice. How far must we not have come from the +primitive simple and straightforward conception of these things to +think it is happier to be betrayed than to betray! And yet that’s how +I feel. What does love signify to me; what does it ever mean to a man? +Why should there be anything tragic in the fact that a man is betrayed +in love? If he takes it tragically he merely becomes comic. And if on +the discovery that he is a cuckold he breaks off reading a good book, +he deserves to be one. But women--it’s a different thing with them.» + +Henrik’s glance was fixed on vacancy. + +«Deserted women,» he said--«there’s something special about them. One +can’t escape lightly from the thought of them. No, if they scold and +fuss and make a row, it’s easier at once; then the whole thing becomes +burlesque, one shakes it off, and is free. Then one asks oneself, ‹How +did I ever come to love such a creature?› One easily persuades oneself +that one has never loved her, and so she’s out of the story. But the +others--it seems the most painful thing of all to me to imagine her +whom I love withered and pale, discarded, put in the shadow side of +life, while I myself live on.... It is a paradox, I realize--it can +never happen; one cannot at the same time act so and feel it so. And +yet ... I met an old woman just now, here on the street, right outside +your door. She was old and very pale and a little comic. She was quite +shabbily dressed, too--one of the poor who are too proud to beg. One +often sees such old women; there was nothing remarkable about her, +nothing that distinguished her from any others of her kind, except that +all at once, when I came close to her, she struck me as so like---- No, +I can’t tell you straight out. There’s a young girl I’m very fond of. +I’m so fond of her that we’re going to be married, perhaps very soon. +It was she that the old woman was like, despite the difference in age +and all the rest--it was one of those indefinite resemblances that one +thinks one sees the first moment, and the next it’s gone without one’s +knowing in what it consists. But that moment was enough for me; a chill +went through me, a shudder as if I had seen something terrible, and it +seemed to me only all the worse that everything else was as usual: the +sun was shining and people were on the street.... The girl I care for +stood before me, she passed me, withered, discarded, a little comic. +It came over me that not even the thought that I myself was dead and +lying under the earth could be any consolation to me in such a case; +the only conception that could bring any relief was that I was living +as wretched and exhausted as she.» + +They sat quiet a long while. + +«Tell me,» Martin finally asked, «who is she, the girl you are fond of? +That is, if it’s no secret. Do I know her?» + +«Yes,» said Henrik, in a subdued voice, «you know her, and I can tell +you. It is Sigrid Tesch.» + +Sigrid Tesch. Martin saw before him a young and supple figure, with +dark abundant hair and delicate regular features. He had met her a +couple of times quite cursorily. He knew she had made an impression on +Henrik, and in his own twilight thoughts she had sometimes passed by +with a pallid dream smile. + +So it was she then, Sigrid Tesch, who was to be Henrik’s bride. + +«Yes,» said Henrik, «isn’t it inexplicable that one can dare go into +such a thing as love?... And yet....» + +«Yes,» said Martin, «and yet....» + +They both smiled. + +Henrik Rissler got up. + +«It is dusk,» he said; «we can hardly see the glasses. Will you go out +with me? It’s wonderful outside tonight. Oh, you want to write---- +Well, we’ll see each other again soon. Good-by!» + + + + +--XIII-- + + +It was dusk now, almost dark, and Martin was still sitting in his +rocking-chair at the table and could not get up energy to light the +lamp. There was a little wine left in the bottle; he poured it into his +glass and drank. He had raised the window to let the smoke drift out, +and through the trampling of feet which rose from below like the sound +of a hundred ticking clocks he heard the house door open and close +again and steps going off down the street--they were Henrik’s. Martin +thought about his love and what he had said about it, and he was at +once struck with the fact that at the mere touch of this bit of reality +his own love affair evaporated and was gone like mist and dream. +Harriet Skottë.... He asked himself: «If I should read in the paper +tomorrow that she was engaged or married, or that she was dead--what +would that signify to me? Nothing, no reality lost, no expectation gone +to shipwreck--just a mood burst, which would soon have burst anyhow.» + +He took from his pocket the letter he had written, tore it open, and +read it again. «I’ll burn it,» he thought--«but why burn it? I may be +able to use it sometime in a story.» + +He tossed it into a table drawer among other manuscripts. Then he sank +again into reverie. + + * * * * * + +Suddenly his mother stood in the doorway. She held a lamp in her hand +and was leaning forward, looking at him. + +«You’re sitting in the dark,» she said. «Papa has gone out. May I sit +with you here a while?» + +Martin nodded. She set the lamp on the table, fetched a basket with +her sewing, and sat down to sew. + +She sat silent, bent over her work. At length she raised her eyes, +large with tears and sleeplessness. + +[Illustration: Woman at table with book] + +«Tell me, Martin,» she said; «you mustn’t be cross, but one day when +you were out I couldn’t help pulling out a drawer of your table and +glancing at your papers. Otherwise I should never know what you’re +thinking about. And what I got hold of made me so worried that I had +to sit down and cry. I didn’t understand it, I don’t know if it was +supposed to be verse or what it was, but I thought it was only full +of terrible blasphemies. I got so frightened, I almost thought for +a moment that you were out of your head. I know I don’t understand +anything, but so much I can still see, that you’ll never get anywhere +with writing that way. You can write very finely, too, if you want to.» + +Martin was silent. What should he answer? He divined, or at least +supposed, that his mother had really wished to say something quite +different, and that her saying he wouldn’t get on in the world was +merely a forced expedient which she caught at when thoughts and words +deserted her. She had of course felt and suspected that the poem she +had found in the drawer was meant to be taken quite differently from +the way she now feigned to think, she wanted him to explain himself, +to talk to her about his thoughts. She was pounding at the door, «Let +me in! don’t make me stand outside; I’m cold and it’s so lonely!» And +yet he didn’t open the door, he couldn’t; he hadn’t fastened it, it had +locked itself. + +What ought he to answer her? Her words had filled him with a deep +discouragement. If he had any ambition, it was to write so that each +and all who really cared to could understand him. He had no taste for +any literary freemasonry; he did not believe in a literature for the +_élite_, nor had he failed to observe how often it happened that no +one wanted to be of the _élite_. Now it suddenly became clear to him +how hopeless was his ideal: there was no art for all, there were no +thoughts for all; on the contrary the simplest ideas in the clearest +language were but seldom understood by others than those who were +familiar beforehand with just that type of thought. How should he be +able to speak with her about his thoughts, when her vocabulary, as the +monotony of the years had developed it, did not even suffice to express +what she herself thought and felt at the bottom of her heart? The god +with whom his poem dealt was of course Spinoza’s god, the World Soul; +but this god was merely an intellectual experiment, whereas hers--his +mother’s--was at least a product of the imagination and as such had +a bit more life and more blood. How should he explain that what she +called blasphemies did not apply to her god? She would have answered +that there was only one god. He knew all she would answer and say; +therefore he remained silent and looked out of the window, listening to +the Saturday tread of tired feet on the pavement, and the rain which +began to fall against the windowpanes. + +And as to what she had said about his future, what could he say? To +that there was but one answer: to be successful, to become famous. And +that answer he could not give. «If I win recognition some day,» he +thought to himself, «a recognition such as would gratify her, it will +be when she is no longer alive. So it always is. Why should I hope for +an exception for her and me?» What was he to do? Ought he to put his +arms around her neck, ought he to stroke her hair and kiss her? No, +that wouldn’t seem natural. He didn’t care for that sort of deception +and she didn’t either; he knew her; she wouldn’t be satisfied with +that. She had asked, and it was an answer she awaited. He could answer +nothing, and he was silent. + +He was silent and felt at the same time how the silence burned in her +breast, and though he could say nothing he sought instead with his +glance to meet her eyes, those eyes which used to smile so bright and +blue when they looked into his. It still happened sometimes in the +midst of dinner or in the evening at the tea-table that she looked at +him and nodded and smiled brightly as before, as mothers nod and smile +to their little children before they are able to talk. Perhaps she had +the feeling that time had gone in a circle, and that this smile was the +only form of expression she still had in her power when she wished to +communicate with her children. It was just so that he wished she could +have looked at him and nodded and smiled, with a smile far beyond all +the unimportant things which separated them. + +But she did not smile now; she sat silent with hands crossed on her +knees, and her eyes, generally so near to weeping, now stared tearless +into the shadows as if they sought and asked, «Are all mothers as +unhappy as I? As lonely? As deserted by their children?» + +The lamp flame fluttered in the night wind. She rose and said good +night, took the lamp, and went out. + + + + +--XIV-- + + +Martin still sat a long while at the window. + +«Here time has stood still,» Henrik Rissler had said. «Yes, he was +right. Here it stood still, time. It is by changes that one measures +the course of time; I have nothing to measure it with. I shouldn’t even +know it was Saturday today if I didn’t hear the tramping down there.» + +An old story came to his mind. There was once a sinner who died one +evening in his bed. Next morning he awoke in hell, rubbed his eyes, and +called, «What’s the time?» But at his side stood the devil laughing +and holding up before him a clock that had no hands. Time was over and +eternity had set in. + +«Eternity; no hurry any more.... + +«Other people have day and night, workday and holiday, Christmas and +Easter. For me it all flows into one. Am I then already living in +eternity?» + +And he thought on: «Tomorrow is Sunday. What does that mean for me? It +means that tomorrow I am free from my ostensible work, and that I thus +feel twice as strongly the demand of that which should be my real work. +But if the weather is fine, I shall naturally go out for a walk.... +So, anyhow, it won’t be a real Sunday no matter what I do. What a +strange sort of work I have taken upon me! Wouldn’t it be better to +give it up while there is still time, to submit to the rules that hold +for other men? One is never done with this, there is never a feeling of +quiet and rest. Many a free Monday, but never a real Sunday, never any +more! + +«My ostensible and my real work--how long shall I be able to keep up +this illusion? The truth is I’m in a good way to get a permanent job, +that in eight or ten years I could become a regular clerk, and in forty +years would get my discharge with a pension. My poor mother would be +able to spare herself a deal of trouble if she saw all that clearly as +I do now. But she imagines in the innocence of her heart that what I +write on a few scraps of paper at night will hinder my advancement, for +she has no conception of the boundless indifference of men of ideas. +To hurt my prospects I should be forced to write personal abuse about +my superiors, and why should I do that? They are good-natured men and +have got me gratuities and commissions although others deserved them +better. They have certainly taken an interest in me. I am not the +sort of fellow to put a torpedo under the ark; they have felt that +instinctively, and they are presumably right.» + +He felt that he would eventually be lost in the multitude. He could +not escape the thought that he was at bottom like all the rest; and +whether this was his rightful fate, or whether he was too exceptional +to be effective among exceptions, he felt only that routine held him +every day more tightly a prisoner and that he was going to be lost in +the crowd. And the other thing--his poetry; what was that and whither +could it lead? Once when he had needed money he had collected a bundle +of his poems and gone around to the publishers. A couple of them had +wanted to print the volume but none had been willing to pay anything. +«No,» he had answered very seriously, «do not count on my ambition!» +When he had come home he had looked through these verses again; and +again, as so many times before, he had found them uninspired and empty. +Most of them were written so as to be sold at once to a magazine and +showed that they were so written. And he said to himself, «How absurd +it is for a man to make a business of ideas when he has no sure means +of subsistence! As clever as the way the minister at a funeral sermon +transforms the dead man’s means of livelihood into a mission in life. +But existence knows how briskly and mercilessly to transform a mission +in life into a means of livelihood for a man with no income. Yet +supposing this should be a real means of livelihood--but no, it won’t +be; distaste and weariness will come, one will tire of the whole thing +and sink back, down into the crowd. + +«Down into the crowd; one will do as the others do, there will at least +be no more need of conjuring tricks, one will get back his sense of +time, one will have Sundays and weekdays, work and rest, real rest....» + + * * * * * + +The night air streamed in cold through the window, he shivered but +couldn’t make himself raise his arms and shut the sash. The rain fell +steadily, and, as often happened when he was very tired, his thoughts +began to go into meter and rhyme: + + I sit alone in the darkness + And hear the falling rain, + I hear the drops come plashing + Against the windowpane. + + A grief on my heart lies heavy, + My labored breath comes fast. + Drop after drop my youthtime + Is trickling, trickling past. + + + + +THE WINTER NIGHT ❧ + + + + +--I-- + + +Over Martin’s table in the office an electric light with a green shade +swung, like a pendulum, gently to and fro on its silken cord. It +had been set in motion just a moment ago when he had lighted it. He +stretched out his hand to stop it, but instead waited the time when +the swinging should subside and die down until it was imperceptible. +Lamps were likewise screwed up over the other tables, six shining +green triangles swung to and fro in the semi-darkness of the room, and +lean writers’ hands fumbled at the windows after the curtain cords to +pull them down and shut out the snow and the winter dusk. Martin loved +these green lamps, which gave out no heat or bad odor, and whose glow +had the pure and cold sheen of jewels; and he longed for the day when +electric light should be cheap enough to make its way down even into +the homes of the poor. And just here in this big low old room with +whitewashed walls, because the house was old and had a groined gateway +and low small-paned windows in the entrance hall where his office was, +these green lamps seemed to him to fit in even better; he saw in this +a symbol of continuous development, an unbroken chain of hands and +wills, from those which had wearied long since to those which were now +in embryo, the new inwoven with the old. Where all is old there enters +an atmosphere of wretchedness and decay, and where all is new only that +can thrive and feel at home which is itself new from top to toe, from +pocketbook to soul. + +And Martin was not new, his clothes were not new, nor were his +thoughts. He thought and knew nothing great other than that which +others had taught him--various old gentlemen in England and France who +were now for the most part dead. If these thoughts still brought him +any joy, it was mainly because the times had seemingly forgotten them +long ago, as if they had been written in running water. Other winds +were blowing now, winds before which he preferred to draw up his collar +over his ears; everything came back and all the corpses peeped out, but +he did not care to see them. + +The lamp had ceased to swing over his desk, and he returned to his +accounting. He no longer contented himself with putting down ticks; +he carefully scanned every item and added up every column. His first +youthful antipathy to a mechanical task was long since conquered, and +he had gradually come to learn that these figures were not, as he had +first believed, entirely free from the imperfections which are inherent +in everything human. On the contrary they were often encumbered with +inaccuracies and mistakes; and when he now and again discovered such +mistakes, he was glad at heart but felt at the same time a faint +sensation of sorrow. He was glad because he had occasion to show his +great zeal and because he could count upon his rightful percentage of +the sum which his alertness had saved the state treasury; and he felt +the dark memory of ancient sorrow when he recalled that he had desired +a quite different sort of joy from life. Sometimes, too, he thought of +the poor officials down at Landskrona, Ohus, or Haparanda, who had made +the wrong calculations, perhaps under the influence of last night’s +toddy, and who would now have to pay the difference. But this thought +left him cold, for the years had taught him he must set limits to his +sympathies. + +It was warm in the room, the remains of a great birchwood fire glowed +in the porcelain stove, for there was no inducement to spare the +government’s wood in these times when one had to skimp one’s fuel at +home. Von Heringslake, the chief clerk, who had an income of forty-six +hundred crowns and performed his duties with the pleasant ease which +comes with an independence, sat squatted in front of the stove and +roasted apples over the embers. On his bald pate--which his mortal +enemy, Auditor Camin, asserted was the result of early dissipations but +which in reality shone with the innocence of early childhood--glinted +the triangular reflection of a green lamp. The fragrance of roasted +apples spread and stung Martin’s nostrils, and he was bitterly annoyed +that he had not in all ways the same views concerning this and the +future life as Heringslake, for then he would surely have been offered +an apple. From Auditor Camin’s place sounded for the hundredth time +the old pronouncement, «The country will never be right till we make +the farmers pay for shooting licenses.» And down at the bottom table +off by the door, where it was draughty and there was a wet odor of +umbrellas and overcoats, the youngest generation was eagerly at work +putting in ticks and trying at the same time to recount in whispers the +orgies of last night and the number of punch bottles emptied. + +Martin was still young, for in government service one ages slowly, +but he was no longer one of the youngest and did not have to sit in +the draught of the door. He had drunk brotherhood with most of his +immediate superiors and in his turn did not neglect the duty of laying +aside formalities with those who were younger than he. These ceremonies +were wont to be performed at a general banquet in December. This was +to occur in a few days, and the list of subscriptions was now being +circulated in the department, but Martin did not sign it. He had other +uses for his money, and there was only one of the newcomers with whom +he would have cared to drink brotherhood, a young man who had a place +just opposite him at the same table and in whom there was something +familiar and appealing to his sympathy: namely, an absent and dreamy +glance and the mechanical gesture with which he set down the ticks. +Martin often used to talk to him about the way of the world and was +pleased when he sometimes received intelligent answers. + +As he handed over the subscription list without writing on it himself, +the other looked up and asked in a tone which seemed to convey a touch +of disappointment, «Aren’t you coming to the banquet?» + +«No,» answered Martin, «I have another engagement. But we who are above +conventional forms can assume that we have drunk brotherhood just the +same.» + +The other blushed a little, and they shook hands across the table. + +«Tell me,» the younger man asked after a while, «why does Auditor Camin +want to charge the farmers for shooting licenses?» + +«I don’t really believe he wants that,» Martin replied. «He knows that +shooting licenses for the farmers would raise the price of necessities +even more than taxes. He is only repeating an old saw that he heard +in his youth when he was an assistant. It has stuck to him because it +expresses a collective antipathy, a class hatred; and commonplace +men always need to hate and love collectively. Look out for that, it +is one of the surest signs of an inferior point of view. He likes +women, officials, leading actors, and West Gothlanders, because he is +a West Gothlander himself; and he hates farmers, Jews, Northlanders, +and journalists. It is true that the farmers are a bit stingy in +recognizing the services which he and the rest of us perform for our +country, and that is why he hates them. But in that they observe +the same principle as all employers of labor: to pay as little as +competition will allow. If there was a shortage in clerks, they would +pay more.» + +Von Heringslake, who had by now eaten his roasted apples and resumed +his place at the table next to Martin, turned on his chair and surveyed +him mournfully. + +«You have no heart,» he said. + + * * * * * + +It was after three o’clock; here and there the men were gathering up +their papers and going off. Martin got up, took his coat and hat, put +out his green lamp, and departed. He had crape on his hat, for his +mother was dead. + + + + +--II-- + + +He turned into Long Western Street. On snowy days such as this he +nearly always took that street, because in the narrow winding rift +between the tall old houses one was as if half indoors, in the lee of +the worst wind gusts. + +«Winter, cold.... Strange there are people who assert that they like +this weather. Heringslake, who has a heart in his breast and loves his +native land, regards cold as preferable to heat. But when it’s cold, +he always puts on furs. The conception of hell as a very warm place +clearly originated in the torrid zone. If a northerner had invented +it, it would have been contrariwise a fearful place for draughts, +the breeding ground of influenza and chronic snuffles. But such as +the climate is, I have got used to it, and it has possibly done me +excellent service of which I myself am not aware. Provisions are laid +on ice in order to keep; everything is preserved longer in cold. Why +not human beings as well? I once longed to be consumed in the flame of +a great passion. It never came, whether because I was not deserving +of so great an honor, or whatever the reason may have been. But now, +afterwards, I have begun to misdoubt that such a conflagration may +rather be a bonfire to amuse the spectators than any real enjoyment for +the chief actor. Fire is, in any case, distinctly not my element. If a +real spring sun were ever to come into my life, I should go rotten at +once from being unused to the climate.» + +He stopped a moment in front of a jeweler’s window. Most of the pieces +were distinguished by a commonplaceness which left him no regret that +he could not purchase any. Once, indeed, it was just a year ago to the +day, he had bought a little ring with a green emerald. She to whom it +had been given still wore it and never wanted to wear any other ring. +She said she shouldn’t ever want to wear a plain gold ring. Well, in +any case he couldn’t offer her such a specimen.... + +«I’m ungrateful,» he said to himself, «now that at last a little +sunlight has come into my life, more maybe than comes into most. But I +have been frozen too long; I haven’t been able to thaw out yet.» + +He had come out on Mint Square, the northerly gale blew his eyes shut +with the snow, and he felt his way along, half blind, toward North +Bridge. He had to stop again to get breath at Looström’s bookstore, +where the celebrities of the day were exhibited in the window: Crispi, +King Milan, and Taine, while between an Excellency and a forger he +discovered a face that looked familiar. It was a Swedish poet, the +decadent who had expounded his ideas of life at the «Anglais» over +the green chartreuse. He was not there because he was a great man but +because he was dead. + +Martin went on toward home. + +«At last a man who has reached his goal! His goal was a bit unusual, +and he did not reach it quite as he imagined; he never got the general +paralysis of his dream, for he died simply and modestly of consumption. +But I don’t suppose he was so particular as to details; as a matter of +fact he only wanted to succumb, no matter how. Perhaps he was right; +that’s the sort of goal one ought to set for oneself if he hopes to +reach it in his lifetime. It is true one might also propose to oneself +to be a millionaire or a bishop or a member of the legislature, and +that goal too one can usually reach if he really wants to. Those who +know how to concentrate their will with sufficient intensity on a +single object are so extremely few that the competition is by no means +prohibitive. Everybody wants to be rich, but most men wish at the same +time to live as if they were rich already; they want to take things +easy, to have a nap after dinner, drink champagne with the girlies and +so on, and so they never get rich, never even become bishops or members +of the legislature. He who wants to stop on the road every now and then +and enjoy life a bit before he reaches his objective will never reach +it; and the others, the indefatigable pilgrims, the men of will who +arrive--what have they left afterwards when they get there? + +«On the other hand it is possibly superfluous to expend any particular +effort on the objective: to succumb. That is a goal which can certainly +be attained at a cheaper price; it even comes near of itself, slowly +and surely. The best thing is perhaps that which the other dead man +over there in the bookshop window loved so much while he lived: a big +tree and tranquil thoughts. For it is not quite true, what Messer Guido +Cavalcanti said when he felt death approaching, that it is as vain to +think as to act. In one way it is no doubt true: namely, that the +final result will always be the same black pit, and as a meditation on +death Messer Guido’s words have their value. But looked at from another +point of view, it is clear that he who enjoys thinking is always in +this world of incalculables in a slightly better position than a man +of action. Because for him the minute has its worth in and for itself, +independent of the uncertainties of the future. He who wishes to +become a Knight of the Order of the Seraphim or a pope and gives up +everything, the pleasures both of thought and of love, to attain that +object--and the first sacrifice at least is inevitable--and then gets a +fishbone in his throat and dies before he has reached it, his life is a +nullity, an intention without performance. But he whose standard lies +in thought may have his life cut off at any point and it will be like +the snake of popular superstition, it will still live, it will have its +value even as a fragment; nay, it has never, properly speaking, assumed +that it wished to be anything but a fragment. For he who is measured by +the standard of thought can never set himself any human goal, or if he +does, this will be arbitrary and inessential, and it is a matter of no +significance whether he reaches it or not.» + + * * * * * + +Martin had got up to Östermalm and was almost home; he was hungry and +was eager for his dinner, yet he stopped at a street corner and looked +up toward a window high up in a fourth story. + +Yes, there was a light there; she was home then. He knew that already, +anyhow, and he knew besides that she expected him after dinner. In the +evening they were to go to a theater together; they were to sit in a +stage box behind a screen where nobody could see them. + +He had taken a mistress. Chance had brought them together. She worked +in a life insurance office in the morning counting money. She worked +for her living. She had, to be sure, an old father somewhere off in the +country, a pensioned forester who wrote her letters three times a year; +but she was self-supporting and depended upon no one. Like other young +girls she had dreamed of a happiness which should be correct, and had +guarded her jewel in the hope of being married. She had had her fancies +and been in love with men who had not even noticed it. But these small +flames had gone out when they had no fuel, and if a man not too +ridiculous or repulsive had wished to offer her his hand, she could +easily have persuaded herself that she loved him. But she had seen +the years run away; she had danced in the winter and bicycled in the +summer, and many men had let her divine by their looks and veiled words +that they would gladly possess her; but no one had wanted to marry her, +for she had no dowry and did not belong to a family with influence. The +more economical and diffident of the men, moreover, were frightened by +her elegance, for she had a sure and delicate taste and two industrious +hands, and many a night she sat up by her lamp and sewed cheap remnants +and old shreds into dresses, which later gave to inexperienced eyes the +impression of having cost a great deal, or to the more skeptical-minded +even suggested a doubt of her virtue. She was not, however, beautiful +enough for the men whose feelings were governed by their vanity, nor +did her nature have anything of the sweet and docile quality fitted +to attract men who wished to be lords in their own home, men who had +simply tired of bachelor life and therefore looked about for a nice +and charming and modest and obedient wife. + +Both her own character and her outer circumstances were such that she +had no great prospect of being loved for any other reason than love, +and she had gradually begun to suspect that this feeling, of which so +much was said and written, was really scorned and put to one side so +that it was extremely rare. She had thought over all this, she had felt +the minutes running through her fingers like sand, and had decided +that the years to come would be still more wretched and worthless than +those before and that the jewel she guarded was losing its value every +day. Most of all she had been frightened at how quickly women age who +live without men, except those who are so fortunate as not to feel any +strong desire or lack. But she was not of these; no, she was a real +woman and she knew she was. The desire which in her first youth had +only been a sweet and indefinite longing, a dream of happiness of a +strange and unknown sort, now burned in her veins like poison; and her +first timid girlish fancy, which had hardly dared to look beyond a kiss +in the twilight between bushes of roses, had developed with years into +a hobgoblin much worse than those used in children’s picture-books to +frighten naughty boys. Her glance became wistful and yearning, and she +tried to bring herself to a decision. + +She had almost given up hope of a husband; it was a lover she was +seeking, and even him she sought for long in vain. It was not that +there was a lack of men who would take her out to dance; there were +on the contrary many, and she could make a choice. She looked around +in her circle; she flirted right and left. She grew less afraid about +her reputation than before and went to secret rendezvous with men who +had been attentive to her some evening at a ball. But they remained +strange to her, and every time an understanding was in the air, she was +overcome with shame and became suddenly icy with fear and repugnance. +For every time when the critical moment came, she read in the man’s +eyes the ineradicable crudity of his heart. She read it as plainly as +if it had stood written on white paper that what was for her a wholly +new experience in life--perhaps ruin, perhaps salvation--was for him an +amorous adventure. She read that what she was about to do was in his +eyes merely a _faux pas_, which he could overlook only in so far as it +gave him pleasure; and she read that not only did he intend to give her +up very soon, but that he also meant to salve his conduct beforehand by +showing her his contempt. She saw all this and tired of the game before +it had begun, asking herself if she might not just as well follow the +path of virtue, which in any case was clearly the most convenient, and +wither into old age without will and without hope. + +But when she met Martin all this became different, and when she gave +herself to him she felt no more fear, because she saw that he had +understood her, that his thoughts were not like those of the others, +and she felt that he loved her. With him she felt no shame, nor did +she feign any, for she had already sinned so much in her thoughts that +the reality seemed to her innocent and pure. She was no longer young; +she was getting on toward thirty, just as he was. Her complexion had +already been marked by the early frost, and vanished illusions had made +her bitter at heart and crude of speech. But the bitter heart beat warm +and fast when it rested on his, and the ugly words did not make her +mouth less sweet to kiss. + + + + +--III-- + + +Martin sat alone with his father at the dinner table within the same +circle of yellow light which had enclosed the sleepy winter evenings +of his childhood. Martin Birck and his father had seldom anything to +say to each other. They thought differently about everything except the +taxes on food-stuffs. This lack of agreement did not, however, cause +them any sorrow; they attached no importance to it. They both knew that +different generations think differently, and they found this natural. +Nor did they find silence anything painful or oppressive; it was just +the self-evident expression of the fact that nothing had happened which +could give rise to an exchange of opinions. When they chatted together +it was mostly about the improvement of government work and about new +houses. For Martin’s father was interested in his city. On Sundays he +often went for long walks to distant parts of the city and saw how +new suburbs shot up out of the earth. He thought of how Stockholm had +developed since his youth, and he found all the new houses handsome, +especially if they were large and imposing with many windows and small +towers at the corners. And when Martin heard his father speak of all +these ugly houses and call them handsome, he thought of how unjust life +was, since it remorselessly closed the way to the inner regions of +beauty for the best and most useful members of the community. For the +way thither went through melancholy, there was no other, and it was not +idly that the Greek musician answered Alexander, «May the gods never +make you so unhappy, my lord, that you may learn to understand music +better than I.» Martin’s father had had a youth too full of worry and +a manhood too full of strenuous responsibility to know anything of the +mental depression with which life punishes those who think more about +beautiful and ugly and good and evil than they do about their daily +bread. + + * * * * * + +On this day, as usual, Martin’s father discoursed about one thing and +another over his coffee and cigar. He spoke of a men’s dinner he had +attended the day before, where he had felt embarrassed on account of +his Vasa decoration; for he had gone with the large official medal, +which was the only one he had, whereas the other men had had the small +miniatures. + +«So,» he finished, «I looked like the biggest fool of the company.» + +«Yes,» observed Martin, «appearances were clearly against you. But in +reality the miniature medals of the others gave the clearest proof that +their foolishness was greater, since because of their decoration they +went to more expense than was strictly necessary.» + +«Yes,» his father answered, «I thought of that too, but I felt awkward, +anyhow.» + +The conversation died down. Martin was thinking of various stories +about decorations which he had heard, such as that about a man who had +been given the Vasa medal because he had sent flowers to the royal +hospital on the days when the queen was to visit it, and about one who +got the North Star because he had bought a house. But it never occurred +to him to tell these, because when he thought the matter over he could +see that these stories, which he found so amusing, might not have +quite the same effect on the elder man, who had earned his decoration +by forty years of ill-paid work in the government service and could +therefore hardly fail to think of it without some respect, although in +conversation he might make fun of it. + +Silence spread out around them; the father smoked his cigar and looked +out into the dark, and Martin sat in thought. He thought of the history +of his home, how it, like other homes, had come into existence, grown +and blossomed, and how afterwards the bonds had one after another been +broken: his sister married, his mother dead. The best time, the blossom +time, was mostly that when the children had just grown up and the +elders were not really old. It was true he had heard old women say that +the happiest time was when the children were small. Yes, that might +well be--for the mothers. But he remembered the years when his sister +had just grown up and was about to be married. Then everything was glad +in the home; they had youth, friends, music. The piano, which now was +dumb, still held the waltzes and opera selections of the bygone years; +and often when he lay awake at night, he could still hear the Norwegian +songs they sang then: «He Leaned above the Garden Bench» and «I Ask +Thee Not for Roses from thy Breast.» In these songs still lived a part +of his youth, and they now seemed full of all the strange melancholy +of the past. Then suddenly the house had became silent, more silent +with every year, till one day the father sat alone with the son in an +empty and shattered home. + +Looking at his father, he asked himself, «What can I be to him?» +«Infinitely little,» he had to answer, «almost nothing.» She whom he +had loved from his youth up now lay under the earth, under a little +snow-covered gray stone, and could not warm his age. The fire on the +hearth was ready to die out. _He_ was the one whose duty it was to +kindle the new flame. He felt it was this which, in the normal course +of things, the elders of the family had the right to expect of the +young: to see the chain carried on, a new home, and grandchildren to +rock on their knees. It was so that nature had arranged, she tried +everywhere to hide the dead with new young life, as we ourselves cover +corpses under flowers. Dissolution was thus more easily approached; the +way went downward, to be sure, but one took it amid play and prattle, +as when one started the journey. But to that great and simple craving +he could answer nothing. It was true he could do several things: he +did not think there was any sort of beauty in the world that was +foreign to him, or any thought or shade of a thought that he could +not follow, and furthermore he could look over government ledgers and +inscribe signs in the margins, and drink a good deal of whisky without +losing control of his mind, and perhaps a few other small matters. But +he could not build a home. Not a chance, not a possibility of it. An +artisan, a day laborer could do it, but not he. He could not conjure +forth the four thousand crowns a year that a poor family of the middle +class needed to live. If he could ever get to that point, as he well +might with years, he would be old, his father dead, and she whom he +loved--what would have become of her? + +But it was true, he realized, that the old man did not, at least not +consciously, make any such demand on him. On the contrary his father +understood clearly how impossible it was. He had no hope of seeing a +continuation of his line, of being able to grow old in an environment +of futurity and promise and new scions. But Martin realized that just +this, the fact that he could have no such hope, weighed upon him like +a dark sorrow and made his twilight even more gray and empty. He had +had grief enough without that. He had received small pleasure from +his daughter’s marriage. Her little boy was dead, and she had lately +written home that she wanted a divorce from her husband. + +«The fire is dying on the hearth. Who is to kindle the new flame?» + +His father went into his room for his after-dinner nap. + +It was five, and Martin dressed to go to her who was waiting for +him. He put on an evening suit despite the fact that they were to be +alone and unseen. He had promised her that, for it was their bridal +anniversary. + + + + +--IV-- + + +She stood at her dressing table, where two narrow candles burned before +the mirror. She had just arranged her rich brown hair, and before she +finished her toilet she touched her face with a powder puff to subdue +the color. He sat behind her in a corner of the sofa, but their glances +met in the mirror and were fixed on each other in a long smile. The +trembling of the candle flames and the distance, which the mirror +lengthened, made this smile dark and mysterious. And far within the +dusky depth behind the glass danced a green spark from the emerald on +her finger. + +«Shall you be ready soon?» he asked. «It’s half-past seven. I’m afraid +we shall miss the ghost.» + +[Illustration: Man in evening suit] + +It was Hamlet they were to see. + +She turned and stroked his cheek with the powder puff, so that he +became as white as a Pierrot. + +«Silly Pierrette,» he said, wiping off the powder with her +handkerchief, «don’t you see I’m pale enough as it is?» + +She leaned down, pressed his head to her breast, and kissed his hair. + +«I am so happy,» she whispered, «because it is my bridal day today, +and because I am going to the theater with you to sit in a little nook +where no one can see us.» + +He caressed her hand softly. He felt a secret stab in the heart when +he heard her speak so, for he knew almost to a certainty that if there +had been any chance of it she would much rather have sat with him in +a place where all could see them. But he did not believe that she had +been thinking of this just now. Never during the past year had she let +fall an allusion to marriage, and she knew only too well how impossible +it was. But he on his part could never cease to feel it as a secret +disgrace that it was not in his power to give her the happiness which +belonged to a secure and respected social position where she would not +need to conceal anything from the world. He felt thus not because there +remained in a corner of his soul any idea of a duty to be performed or +of any transgression that ought to be atoned for, but because he was +infinitely fond of her and could have wished to make life bright for +her eyes and smooth for her little foot, which had such stony paths to +go that it was not surprising if at last it had trodden a bit awry. + +He dismissed these thoughts, however; he did not mean to attempt the +impossible; he was no strong man who could take her in his arms and +break a way for them both. And she had made her own choice. She had +known strong men too, the kind of men of whom women commonly say, «He’s +a real man»; if she had wished she might have given her love to one of +them, and he would not have despised it. But her deepest instinct had +held her back with forebodings of shame and unhappiness. For, strangely +enough, it was precisely the strong men who rarely acted as he could +have wished to do had he been able; they were strong just because in +the crisis, when there was really something at stake, their feelings +always formed an alliance with their profit, and they usually knew +where best to employ their strength. No, he and she had nothing else to +do, lonely and chilled as they were, than gratefully and without any +yearning for the impossible to warm themselves at the happiness which +had fallen into their hands, blessing the day when they were driven +together by the voice of their blood, which told them that they suited +each other and could bring each other joy. Secretly, however, he often +liked to dwell on the remote vision that some day many years hence he +might be able to give her a home. The thought that by then she would +be already an old woman did not frighten him. He had the feeling that, +no matter how fast time flew, even if she had gray hair and wrinkles +around her eyes, her young white body could never become old--it would +still remain young and warm as now; and no matter how the years passed +and winter after winter snowed under his youth and stung his soul and +his thoughts with needles of ice, his heart would always be warm as now +to the beating of hers, and that always when the two met there would +spring up a spark of the sacred fire which warms all the world. + +While he was thinking all this, his eyes were following every motion +of her slender white arms before the mirror. Again his smile sought +hers, she nodded to him with a glimmer of secret happiness in her color +underneath the powder, and deep within the dusk he saw his own face, +the features sharpened to a mask-like quality by the candlelight, +nodding in answer like a Chinese doll. + +«There’s no hurry,» she said. «In any case we can’t creep into our +little corner before a good bit of the first act is over; otherwise we +might meet acquaintances in the lobby.» + +«That’s true, you are right,» he answered. + +He had thought of that himself too. + +«One must have one’s wits about one in such a position as ours,» she +nodded. «It’s a different thing from sitting with one’s nose down over +a book. But isn’t it almost like magic, when one thinks about it, that +we’ve actually been left in peace a whole year and that nobody knows +anything? I even think people speak less badly about me now than they +used to. Everybody has got so friendly toward me: the manager, the +clerks, and the girls in the office. But perhaps that’s because I’ve +become prettier--haven’t I? They certainly see I’m happy, and that +makes them kindly disposed, so that they are cheerful and nice to me +without suspecting why. If they knew!----» + +Martin didn’t like to hear her talk of their happiness. It was a +different thing to read it in her eyes and her color and to feel it in +her kisses; he believed in it then, and no text could be more precious +to interpret than that. But when he heard her talk about it he felt on +his breast a weight of bitterness and oppression at the thought of how +little he had really given her and how full of faults and deficiencies +her poor happiness was. He knew that the short minutes she spent with +him took on such vivid color just because she had to pay for them with +long days and nights of fear, fear lest she should suddenly lose what +she had dared so much to win, fear that all of a sudden everything +might end some day, her golden happiness turn to withered leaves, and +she herself be left more poor and lonely than ever before. This fear +never really left her, he knew. + +Once, it had not been so long ago, they had arranged to meet at his +house. The time was approaching, he was awaiting her, there was a ring +at the door, and he hurried to open it. But it was not she; it was +one of his friends who had come to sit and talk a while. He could not +say he was engaged or that he was expecting a visit, or the friend +would have met her on the stairs and taken in the whole thing. He said +instead that he was just going on an important errand, put on his hat +and coat, and they went out together. They had not gone far beyond the +gate before he saw her coming along the street. She cast a frightened +and uncertain glance at him and he raised his hat to her as he passed, +politely and a little distantly, as he had to do so as not to betray +her. He turned off into a side street to get rid of his friend and +after a couple of minutes came back circuitously to his gate. She was +walking in front of it in the rain and mud. He pressed her hand softly +and they went up. But when she was inside the door he saw she was +trembling with sobs. + +There was no need of explanations; she had already understood the +situation, but his curt and chilly greeting as he passed, while he was +talking with a strange man, had been enough to rouse the secret fear in +her blood; she had to give it vent, she had to weep, and she wept long +and silently in his arms. + +Ah! their poor happiness; it had given them much but it could not +bear the bright and arid illumination of words; it could not endure +being spoken of. All his tenderness could not give her the calm which +accompanies a life that can be shown to the multitude and approved +by them, nor could it in solitude prevent her from sometimes feeling +ashamed and conscience-stricken. For because life had shown her two +different aspects, between which she could not see any connection, she +had not one conscience but two. One told her she had acted rightly +and that the time would come some day when no one would be able to +understand any more why people had formerly concealed the love between +man and woman in shame and filth and called it sin. But the other +conscience said nothing about the future; it rose from the depths of +the past, speaking with the accents of her dead mother and with voices +from her home in the woods and from her childhood, when she knew +nothing of the world or of herself, when everything was simple and one +only needed to be good to have things go nicely. + +On evenings when he had just left and she sat alone in her rented room +with strange stupid furniture, amid which the bureau with the Empire +mirror and the green stone top was the only thing that was hers and the +only object to remind her of her childhood home, the old conscience +would rise up and whisper many vulgar things into her ear. It whispered +that both the women who married men repugnant to them so as to be +provided for and the poor girls who sold their bodies from necessity +were better than she was, for they had at least a reason for their +conduct but she had none. It did not help that she thought of her great +love and defended her course with that; the old conscience was prepared +for such an argument and whispered in reply that it was not he who had +kindled the fire in her blood; her own desire had blown upon the flame; +the evil was in herself, and she was an abandoned creature who ought to +be whipped with rods in the town hall, as people used to treat women of +loose morals. Still worse things this conscience hit upon, whispering +that he whom she loved would soon tire of her, nay, that he had already +tired and despised her in his heart because she was always so willing +to sin and had never denied him anything. + +He knew all this, for she always let him share her troubles. He in +turn always felt the same wonder and surprise at this philosophy: +namely, that the same desire which in a man was so natural and simple +and as easy to admit as hunger or thirst, should be for a woman a +burning shame which must be quenched or concealed; this philosophy, +which he never could comprehend emotionally, though he followed it +in his reflections all the way to its source in the dusk of ancient +times, when woman was still man’s property and when the sensual side +of her nature was permitted, even praised, as far as it expressed her +submission to the will of her master, but was considered criminal and +shameful if it came from her own will. This philosophy was still so +firmly rooted in woman that modest ladies often felt a secret shame in +loving their husbands and longing for their embraces. He even recalled +how he had once heard a woman of the streets divide her kind into the +decent and the sluts, meaning by the decent those who only thought of +giving themselves for money. As a matter of fact this division was more +just and profound than she herself imagined. It had its origin in the +policy of women inherited through millenniums from one generation to +another, as necessity had dictated it from the beginning. Necessity +bade a woman not to lower by generous prodigality the price of the +commodity which was the only means of power for the weaker sex, the +one thing which could save it from being wholly trampled down by the +stronger. If the poor streetwalker had known her Bible better, she +might in support of her classification have cited the savage anathemas +of the prophet Ezekiel against the lascivious Ahala, who was not as +other harlots, «whom a man must needs purchase with money.» + +He realized all this quite well; life was too stingy to allow women to +be lavish, and he condemned none of them, not even the modest. But he +loved his generous mistress and consoled her as well as he might on +the days when the warning voices within her had frightened and filled +her with remorse. That was not hard for him to do, because when he was +with her she felt no fear. But he knew also that there were days, nay, +weeks, when she went about in consuming anxiety for fear she might have +a child in spite of everything. He did not conceal from himself that +this was the weak point in all secret love. He saw clearly how uneven +the game must always be when one approached this point, how all the +risk and danger lay on the side of the woman, and again he was secretly +ashamed that it was not in his power to share with her the bitter as he +shared the sweet. The risk of having a child was hers to begin with, +and if this was avoided she had still the lack and emptiness of not +being able to allow herself the happiness of motherhood. It cut him to +the heart when he once saw her at twilight take a strange child from +the street in her arms and kiss it. But motherhood for her would have +implied continual misery, as the world was now. + +Neither of them had, however, been pampered by life; they had taught +themselves not to covet any complete and unblemished happiness, and +love had helped them to take all this as it had to be and ought to be +taken. + +She was ready now; she put out the candles in front of the mirror and +waited a couple of minutes in the dark while he went ahead of her on +the street, so that no one might meet them together on the stairway. +On the street they sometimes ventured to walk together after it was +dark, especially if the weather was misty or if there was rain or snow. +On this particular evening the snow was falling so thick and white +that nobody could have recognized them. People passed them in the +white night like phantoms without name or distinction. Close together, +nameless themselves and somewhat like the silhouettes which children +cut out in pairs from folded paper, they made their way through the +snow. She held his arm pressed to her bosom and both were silent. + + + + +--V-- + + +It was dark in the house, and Martin had pushed up the slatted shutters +of the box. No one could see them, nor from where he sat in his corner +could he see anything of what was happening on the stage. He only heard +lines and responses thrown out in the dark, and saw, or fancied he saw, +their effects on the curving rows of pale human masks--a sloping flower +bed full of large curious flowers, colorless as are plants that grow +without sunlight, and not exactly beautiful as they waved gently, as if +before an inaudible wind, or nodded on their stems from time to time. + +He imagined he could recognize them all, whether because he had really +met them so often on the street and in public places, where he had been +one of them, that their faces had become fixed in his subconscious +memory; or because of the tendency of human faces to group themselves +into a few types, so that one rarely seems to encounter a really new +face. + +Some of these faces, furthermore, he knew very well. Over yonder sat +Henrik Rissler, his friend from boyhood. They seldom met now, and that +was a pity, for Martin knew of no one with a better appreciation of +friendship, ideas, and cigars than he. But he had now been married for +several years and led a migratory life. He had not yet finished the +odyssey of the newly married couple from one damp abode to another, +always on the outside edge of the city, from the Vasa Quarter to South +Stockholm, and from there to Kungsholm. But Martin had the conviction +that they would find each other again, if life would only grant them +both a little more repose. + +And there, a bit farther down, that little wrinkled face that reminded +one both of a child’s and of an old man’s--wasn’t that another old +schoolmate, wasn’t it Josef Marin? He had never become a clergyman as +he should have according to the ideas of his obstinate old mother. +But he never got firm in his faith. It is often with faith as with +appetite--it comes with eating; but he had never got to where the +eating began, and he had also at bottom perhaps a thirst for sincerity +which made his course a bit too difficult. Now he covered the music +halls and funerals for a large newspaper. He wrote unreservedly what +he thought and took pains to think as he supposed the editor did; and +the editor, who was the deuce of a fellow and could think whatever +he wanted to, was careful to think as he imagined the educated and +well-to-do folk of the community thought. And because these principles +had set the tone of the paper, it had become popular and respected +and very old, having a fixed reputation for incorruptible honesty and +unpartisan love of truth. + +«I might really just as well have become a clergyman,» he had said one +day to Martin, rather mournfully, when they were exchanging a few words +at a street corner. + +And there, far up in the center, that pale slender woman--was it not +she who had been his flame on certain spring evenings many years ago, +Harriet Skottë? He had written her a letter, too, which had never been +sent. Ah! those days.... Life had gone a bit poorly with her since +then; she did not look happy. She was married now, and her husband was +beside her. He was fat, very well dressed and looked as if he had been +varnished. Poor little child, she hadn’t been too lucky in her marriage +choice--one could tell that by a look at her husband.... + +And he saw other faces, those of women whom he knew slightly although +they didn’t know him, young women whom he kept in friendly remembrance +because sometime without their being aware he had been a little richer +and happier when they had floated past him on the street like sunlit +clouds.... Down there was one whom he remembered well, for she had once +noted his glance and had pulled her skirts around her and given him a +look as if he were a murderer of the Jack the Ripper type. Poor little +lady! the time had flown, she was no longer young, for she had then +been in her late bloom, and now she would get no more such glances when +she went down Sture Street.... + +He grew tired of looking at one thing and listening to another. The +deep and wonderful old words which sounded from the stage said nothing +to him at the moment, and he thought he could read by the masks in the +parquet that the words recoiled unheard from them too, and that they +scarcely comprehended more of what occurred on the stage than the mere +pantomime. It was the fifth act. He leaned back in his corner, letting +the two grave-diggers toss about skulls and witticisms as they chose, +while he sought in the dark the glance of his mistress. But he did not +catch it, because she could see everything from her place and never +took her eyes from the stage. Then once more the words took on color +and life to his ears, when he saw the eagerness in her face; and the +whole churchyard scene, which he could not see but which he knew so +well, seemed to be mirrored in her glance. He saw Hamlet stand there +in his mantle of night and mystery with Yorick’s skull in his hand, he +saw the funeral procession, the lowering of the coffin, and the queen +as she strewed flowers on the grave: «Sweets to the sweet.» He saw the +strange struggle in the grave, the two men wrestling down there, and he +heard Hamlet’s voice, «I loved Ophelia.» + +What did he want--did he want to tear her out of the grave? Suppose she +were not dead, suppose she should arise from the coffin now as if after +a quiet sleep--wouldn’t he take her in his arms and carry her away and +love her to the end of days? No, it was not as he thought. He had said +while she was still alive, «Lady, I loved you once.» He was no ordinary +fickle cavalier, he had not forgotten her for another lady-in-waiting +with a slenderer waist and a deeper bosom, and still he could say, +«I loved you once.» He could possibly say that of many things. He had +loved the sun, and the flowers and the trees. The blue heavens he had +loved, and water and fire and the good brown earth. He had loved all +that; to all the four elements and to life itself he might have said, +«I loved you once.» But then things had changed, there was something +which stole in between all this and him, something which took him in +its grasp without asking any leave and drove away everything else, +the sun and the flowers and the women and Woman, far away, so that he +hardly saw it any more except as if through a mist.... And now when he +saw the funeral procession come, and heard that it was for her whom he +had had and had lost--but he also knew that he had lost her and all the +rest before she was dead, and the very loss seemed real to him only at +the first moment; at the next he saw it far off, through a mist. + + * * * * * + +Martin had shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, he himself saw +everything through a mist: the parquet and the white masks down there +and her whom he loved. + +She took his hand and caressed it softly between her two warm hands +while she whispered to him, «Tell me, what are you thinking of?» + +[Illustration: Man and woman in front of a window] + +The winter night slept around them. It snowed no longer, and they +went home in a white moonlit mist through the snowdrifts, in through +her door and up the stairs. It got brighter and brighter the higher +they climbed. They stopped at a stairway window and looked out. The +greater part of the mist was now below them, it lay wrapped around the +yards and open spaces beneath, but in the upper regions of the air +everything was almost clear; it was bluish and bright as a night in +August. A wide ring of light was around the moon, and in the pale glow +the world lay as if ice-bound and petrified. Out of the ocean of mist +down there arose a lonely gable wall without a window, which absorbed +the cold glance of the moon and stared blindly and emptily back. A long +shiver went through them both, they pressed hard against each other, +closing their eyes, and everything was lost to them in a kiss. + +It became a long and wonderful kiss. He felt all her being dissolve, +while he heard in his ears the sound of distant bells from a little +country church far away between hedges and wheat fields. It seemed +to be a Sunday morning: he saw a neat gravel plot, red peonies were +glowing from the flower beds, white and yellow butterflies were +fluttering about the bushes and the lawn, and he heard the rustling +of mighty trees. He was walking with her among the trees, but through +their murmur passed a breath of autumn, the yellow butterflies were +yellow leaves, and some were already dark with frost. The wind carried +with it broken accents and words, which were sometimes like the dry +words of everyday speech, sometimes like furtive whispers about +something that had to be kept secret, with all of which was blended +as it were the echo of the actor’s strange intonation a little while +before when he said, «I loved Ophelia.» + +But he did not relinquish her mouth. They sank ever more deeply into +one another. He seemed to be voyaging through space: in the white +moon-mist burned a red star, first faint and expiring, then more +powerful and ever nearer, growing and broadening into a flaming +spring of fire, to which he fastened his lips tightly. He seemed to +burn without suffering, the flames cooled his tongue like a slightly +bitter wine, until he felt that he was drinking in everything: satiety +and hunger, thirst and coolness, the sun’s health and the midnight’s +anguish, the lucid thought of day and the morbid brooding of moonlit +dusk, all the joy and all the misery of the earth--from this one spring. + + + + + MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH BY HJALMAR + SÖDERBERG IS SET IN BODONI TYPE. + THE ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY THEODORE + NADEJEN. FORMAT BY A. W. RUSHMORE. + MADE BY THE HADDON CRAFTSMEN. + HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS + · MCMXXX · + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes + + + Surrounding characters have been used to indicate _italics_ + or +small caps+ + A three-leaf glyph has been replaced with ❧ + Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained. + p. 9 changed ; to ! following «death» + p. 37 changed » to › following «kick.» + p. 42 joined unhyphenated parts of «cauldron» + p. 90 removed period between «know» and «----» + p. 107 changed «say" to «saw» + p. 133 changed close quote to close guillemet following «right,» + p. 136 changed quotes to guillemets around «He who hath seen God, + he must die the death» + p. 178 changed «superstitution» to «superstition» + p. 188 changed period to comma following «little» + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78363 *** diff --git a/78363-h/78363-h.htm b/78363-h/78363-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e341a61 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/78363-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6712 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Martin Birck’s Youth | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; 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+ font-size: x-large; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; +} + +/* faux-h3 centered */ +.fh3 { + display: block; + font-size: 1.17em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* misc text formatting */ +.small {font-size: small;} + + +/* illustrations */ +.illowp40 {width: 40%; max-width: 20em;} /* portrait image */ +.illowp90 {width: 90%; max-width: 45em;} /* landscape image */ + + +/* Transcriber's notes (includes pagebreak before) */ +.transnote {background-color: #EAFEEA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; + page-break-before: always; +} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78363 ***</div> + + + + +<h1> +MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH <img alt="Three-leaf glyph" src="images/glyph.png" style="width:1.0em"> +</h1> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p class="fh2">MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH</p> +<p class="fh3">BY HJALMAR SÖDERBERG<br> +TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH<br> +BY CHARLES WHARTON<br> +STORK <img alt="Three-leaf glyph" src="images/glyph.png" style="width:1.0em"> WITH DRAWINGS<br> +BY THEODORE NADEJEN <img alt="Three-leaf glyph" src="images/glyph.png" style="width:1.0em"></p> + +<br> +<figure class="figcenter illowp40"> + <img class="w100" src="images/tree.jpg" alt="Bird on stylized tree"> +</figure> +<br> + +<p class="fh3">HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS<br> +NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXXX</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> +<p class="center" style="white-space:pre">B-E +MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH · COPYRIGHT +1930, BY HARPER & BROTHERS · PRINTED +IN THE U. S. A. <i>FIRST EDITION</i></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> +<p class="center small">TO</p> +<p class="center">A. G. H. SPIERS</p> +<p class=" center small">CRITICAL FRIEND<br> +FRIENDLY CRITIC<br> +THIS VOLUME IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED<br> +BY THE TRANSLATOR<br></p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p> + + +<figure class="figcenter illowp40"> + <img class="w100" src="images/preface.jpg" alt="Abstract decoration"> +</figure> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE"> + PREFACE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p><i>It is a sad thought that everyone cannot enjoy +Söderberg, that this master of delicate +and incisive realism, this prince of humorists, +is—for Anglo-Saxons, at least—an acquired +taste. But it is well to face at the outset the fact +that Söderberg is a European Continental, an +Anatole France of Sweden. To those who +believe that a man is unvirile or at least +anæmic if he refuses to believe in human perfectibility +this attitude toward life will seem +barren and depressing, one to encourage discouragement. +How much pleasanter to feel +with Pippa, not only at 7</i> <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> <i>on a May morning, +but at all hours and seasons, that «all’s +right with the world»! To insinuate the contrary +is to give sanction to those doubts +which, if they overtake even the most confident +of us at unguarded moments, should +all the more be repressed. What is culture if +it is not sweetness and light? Listen to Söderberg: +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span>«Why all this optimism when not one +of the old problems is solved?» And again, +one of his characters affirms, «I believe in the +lust of the flesh and the incurable loneliness +of the soul.»</i></p> + +<p><i>We read fiction for pleasure. What does this +new Swedish novelist offer in compensation +for a somewhat despondent view of life? He +himself rather hesitates to tell us and in this +very hesitation we may, if the faculty be in us, +discern one of his chief attractions. Söderberg +is reticent because he wishes to present the +truth as he sees it without exaggeration and +without prejudice. He colors his picture +neither with the golden glow of the untroubled +believer nor with the red zeal of the revolutionary. +He is honest to such a degree that +he will not stress his own honesty. On the contrary, +he doubts his very doubt: «How could +I, a boy of sixteen, be right and all my elders +and betters wrong?» And again in</i> <span class="smcap">Martin +Birck</span>, <i>«he was not quite certain that truth in +itself could produce happiness, but history had +taught him that illusion created unhappiness +and crime.» And yet all the more from this +unobtrusiveness we divine the intellectual +honesty of the skeptic, which bursts out only +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</span>once in the present novel: «Would a man +never come who did not sing, but spoke, and +spoke plainly!» Such a man has the right to +«paint the thing as he sees it,» to revalue the +time-honored beliefs and customs of the past +in the light of his own experience.</i></p> + +<p><i>We may, I think, trust in Söderberg’s fidelity +to his vision as in that of few living writers. +He collects his data carefully and transmits +them simply. In that there is always stimulus +to a reader who appreciates how difficult it is +to do. But he might do all this and be no more +than a good photographer.</i></p> + +<p><i>As we follow the everyday run of events in</i> +<span class="smcap">Martin Birck</span>, <i>we may at first be impressed +with their perfect verisimilitude and yet incline +to class the author as unoriginal. In that +respect, though probably in no other, the +prose of Söderberg resembles the poetry of +Wordsworth. Few readers will progress more +than a page or two without that sense of the +significant in the commonplace which is the +very soul of originality. Söderberg has followed +the famous counsel of Flaubert to +De Maupassant: «Look at an object until you +have seen in it everything that anyone else can +see, and then look until you perceive what no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</span>one else has seen!» Rarely has any prose been +fuller of implications—emotional, psychological, +moral—than Söderberg’s. To re-read him +is invariably to be surprised at all one has +missed before. One passes through life with +him as one might walk through a meadow with +a great naturalist or stroll through a city at +night with Whistler. The trivial is clothed +with meaning, the habitual is touched with +magic. The world of Söderberg lives; it lives +in beauty.</i></p> + +<p><i>And as one grows more and more conscious of +the author’s pregnance in matter, one is +equally delighted with the perfect consonance +of his manner. He gives not only the thing in +itself, but the feel of the thing, the overtone. +His curious felicity is never startling or precious, +it is simply adequate. How far this may +be recaptured in translation may of course be +an open question. Here at least is an attempt +from the short story</i> <span class="smcap">Margot</span>:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>It was a cool night in the early part of October. +The moon was up; a cold, moist wind was blowing. +The big buildings on Blasieholm formed a dark +mass, whose broken and irregular edge seemed to +be catching at the wisps of cloud that drove forward +against a deep-blue background. The still, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</span>heavy water of Nybro Inlet mirrored a broad glittering +moonpath in oily rings, and along the +wharves the lumber sloops raised a thin and motionless +forest of masts and tackle. In the upper air +was haste and tumult; the clouds hunted each other +from west to east, till over the woods of Djurgården +they congested into a low black wall. It was as if +Heaven were breaking camp for a journey, for a +flight.</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<p><i>The reader of</i> <span class="smcap">Martin Birck</span> <i>will find any +number of similar passages, in description, +character-drawing and the power of the author +to express his own reactions on life and art</i>.</p> + +<p><i>What manner of man is this quiet interpreter +of the life about him? Hjalmar Söderberg was +born in Stockholm, 1869. The outward tenor +of his way has been uneventful. After trying +journalism in a provincial town he tired of +«serving caviare to the Bœotians» and returned +to his native city, the background of +nearly all his work. He first achieved distinction +in the «Storiettes,» miniature stories +usually told in the first person and based on +some casual incident of daily life. In this form +he is unsurpassed.</i> <span class="smcap">Martin Birck</span>, <i>his first +novel, published in 1907, was partly inspired +by «Niels Lyhne,» the work of his elder Danish +contemporary, J. P. Jacobsen, but was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</span>mainly autobiographical. Söderberg was also +influenced by the modern French novelists, +especially Flaubert, Maupassant and Anatole +France. The last named he translated. He +wrote two other novels, «Dr. Glas» and «The +Serious Game,» and two plays, «Gertrud» and +«The Hour of Fate,» besides numerous collections +of short stories. His last long book is «Jehovah’s +Fire,» an historico-religious narrative. +Some early poems and a small sheaf of +criticism complete the tally of his rather moderate +output. Of recent years he has been living +in Copenhagen. He has never married.</i></p> + +<p><i>How little this dry recital of facts has to do +with the real case in point! The genius of +Söderberg is inherent in the temperament of +the man. In appearance he is homely, stoutish, +and suave, a bit Bohemian but decidedly a +gentleman. Quiet, observant, unpretentious, +and rather indolent, he gives an impression of +infinite leisure and tolerance which is largely +borne out by his writing. His mind is a rich, +seemingly passive soil, in which small events +take root and grow, as it were, without an +effort on his part. Therein lies the unique +charm of his stories; their unforced, organic +quality.</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</span></p> + +<p><i>But in the simplicity of Söderberg there is infinite +subtlety. He lets life speak through him +because he realizes that in the last analysis +nothing speaks as persuasively as life. In his +presentation there is a skill beyond praise. +With all his naturalism and tranquillity of +style, he gives us great moments, moments +of profound insight, of wistful loveliness, of +quaint and surprising humor. After all, things +do not choose themselves or arrange themselves +in right relation on the canvas; they +only seem to do so. Without obtruding his personality +Söderberg speaks to the mind and +emotions of his audience in no uncertain +terms.</i></p> + +<p><i>What does he give us finally? First, perhaps, +the delight of seeing nature and humanity +clearly and the greater delight of entering +imaginatively into the essence of both. His +truth has the beauty of understanding. We +find that life does not need to be idealized to +be beautiful; it needs only to be realized. And +as a corollary he gives us a sympathy in this +manifestation which is not unlike that of +Whitman, for it is the sympathy of acceptance. +There is a tone of sadness, sometimes of almost +tragic depth, in the knowledge of «what man +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiv">[Pg xiv]</span>has made of man,» and with it a smile of forgiveness. +What we understand we pardon. +Men and women are lovable in spite of, largely +no doubt because of, their mistakes.</i></p> + +<p><i>But also men and women are irresistibly +funny. Söderberg has almost exactly the mood +of Jaques in «As You Like It.» But whereas +Jaques is dry, Söderberg is sly, with an ingenuous +slyness that never, as with Sterne, +slips off into a leer. How he enjoys letting his +people amuse us, in watching with us their +self-important gestures, the eternal passions +that fade away in a month or a year, their +curious delusions about fame and money and +respectability! If these people could see themselves! +And as we look, we may perhaps be a +little mortified to see</i> our<i>selves. How foolishly +we have wasted our energies and annoyed +those about us, for what? Perhaps we shall be +a little more lenient to the faults of others +from now on. The laughter which Söderberg +evokes is thoughtful laughter.</i></p> + +<p><i>Are we then given no positive impulse, is there +no meaning in life, nothing worth striving +for? «Perhaps not,» says Söderberg. And yet, +pessimist though he is, he has a reticent pride +of his own. He cannot, we feel, tell a lie, cannot +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</span>force anyone in his stories to do or think +anything that is not in character. Furthermore, +he adumbrates through the philosophy +of Martin the ideal of writing «so that each +and all who really cared to could understand +him.» And, like most of Söderberg’s simple +statements, that means considerably more than +appears on the surface.</i></p> + +<p><i>Enough, perhaps more than enough, has been +said to indicate the mood for best enjoying</i> +<span class="smcap">Martin Birck</span>. <i>To call further attention to +details would only tend to spoil the pleasure +of those attempered to appreciate it. I must +return to the original statement that the +reader’s reaction to it will be peculiarly personal. +For myself, I differ almost completely +from the author in his conclusions about life, +I object strongly to his rather supine attitude, +yet I admire and love him. I find him as brilliant +as the modern French masters, and much +more kindly. He has given me more than have +nine-tenths of the worthy authors with whom +I agree. There is in him a strict sense of truth, +a tenderness, a humor which put him definitely +on the side of the angels. He will annoy, will +scandalize, many excellent people, but I am +afraid I am not sorry that he should. He has +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</span>been called the</i> enfant terrible <i>of Swedish +literature. Perhaps we have been taking him +too seriously; no doubt he himself will think +so. After all, there is something perennially +fascinating about a naughty child.</i></p> + +<p class="right"> + <i>C. W. S.</i> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_OLD_STREET"> + THE OLD STREET <img alt="Three-leaf glyph" src="images/glyph.png" style="width:1.0em"> + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> + +<div class="chapter"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-I-"> + —I— + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>Martin Birck was a little +child, who lay in his bed and dreamed.</p> + +<p>It was twilight of a summer evening, a green +and tranquil twilight, and Martin went holding +his mother’s hand through a big and marvelous +garden where the shadows lay dark in +the recesses of the walks. On both sides grew +strange blue and red flowers, swaying back and +forth in the wind on their slender stalks. He +went along holding his mother’s hand, looking +at the flowers in wonder and thinking of +nothing. «You must pick only the blue ones; +the red ones are poisonous,» said his mother. +Then he let go her hand and stopped to pick +a flower for her; it was a big blue flower he +wanted to pick, as it nodded heavily, poised +on its stem. Such a marvelous flower! He +looked at it and smelled it. And again he +looked at it with big astonished eyes; it wasn’t +blue, after all, but red. It was quite red! And +such an ugly, poisonous red! He threw the +naughty flower on the ground and trampled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>on it as on a dangerous animal. But then, when +he turned around, his mother was gone. +«Mamma,» he cried, «where are you? Where +are you? Why are you hiding from me?» +Martin ran a little way down the walk, but +he saw no one and he was near to weeping. +The walk was silent and empty, and it was +getting darker and darker. At last he heard a +voice quite near: «Here I am, Martin. Don’t +you see me?» But Martin saw nothing. «Here +I am all the time. Why don’t you come?» Now +Martin understood: behind the lilac bush, that +was where the voice came from. Why hadn’t +he realized that at once? He ran there and +peeped; he was sure his mother had hidden +there. But behind the bush stood Franz from +the Long Row, making an ugly face with his +thick, raw-looking lips, till he finished by +sticking out his tongue as far as he could. And +such a tongue as he had; it got longer and +longer; there was no end to it; and it was +covered with little yellowish-green blisters.</p> + +<p>Franz was a little rowdy who lived in the +«Long Row» slantwise across the street. The +Sunday before he had spat on Martin’s new +brown jacket and called him «stuck-up.»</p> + +<p>Martin wanted to run away, but stood as if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>rooted to the earth. He felt his legs grow numb +beneath him. Then the garden and the flowers +and the trees had vanished and he was standing +alone with Franz in a dark corner of the +yard at home by the ash barrel. He tried to +scream, but his throat was constricted....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-II-"> + —II— + </h3> + + +<p>But when he woke, his mother was standing +by the bed with a clean white shirt in her hand +and saying, «Up with you, little sleepyhead; +Maria is off to school already. Don’t you remember +that the pear tree in the yard is to be +stripped today? You must hurry if you want +to be there.»</p> + +<p>Martin’s mother had blue eyes and brown +hair, and at that time the glance of her eyes +was still bright and smiling. She laid the shirt +on the bed, nodded to him, and went out.</p> + +<p>Maria was Martin’s big sister. She was nine. +She went to school and already knew what +many things were in French.</p> + +<p>But Martin still had slumber in his eyes and +the medley of the dream in his head, so that +he couldn’t bring himself to get up.</p> + +<p>The curtain was drawn back, and the sun +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>shone straight into the room. The door to the +kitchen stood ajar. Lotta was laughing at the +kitchen window while she chatted with some +one; it was sure to be Heggbom, the porter. +Finally Heggbom began to sing down in the +yard with his rummy voice.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«If I had King Solomon’s treasure chest</div> + <div class="verse indent4">With money in heaps and masses,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’d off to Turkey and never I’d rest</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Till I’d bought me a hundred lasses.»</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>«What would you do with them all,» inquired +Lotta; «you that can’t manage even your own +wife?»</p> + +<p>Martin couldn’t hear what Heggbom answered, +but Lotta began to laugh with all her +lungs. «Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?» she +said.</p> + +<p>Now the porter’s wife had come into the +yard, it sounded as if she was throwing out a +tub of dish-water. With that she began to +scold Heggbom, and Lotta as well. But Lotta +only laughed and slammed the window.</p> + +<p>Martin lay half awake, staring at the cracks +in the ceiling. There was a crack that was just +like Mrs. Heggbom if one looked at it right.</p> + +<p>The clock struck nine in the neighboring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>church, and when it had stopped striking, the +clock in the hall began. Martin jumped out of +bed and ran to the window to see if the pears +were still on the tree.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-007.jpg" alt="Children in tree"> +</figure> + +<p>The pear tree in the yard was beloved by the +children and cats. It was old and large, and +many of its boughs were already dry and dead, +but the others still furnished blossoms and +greenery every spring and fruit every autumn.</p> + +<p>Heggbom’s boys were sitting up in the tree, +throwing down pears after having first stuffed +their pockets full, while below the other children +fought for every pear that fell from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>tree. In the midst of the troop stood Mrs. +Lundgren, broad of build and loud of voice, +trying to enforce a fair distribution, but no +one paid any attention to her. A little way off +stood little Ida Dupont, with great eyes, her +hands behind her back, not venturing into the +turmoil. Mrs. Lundgren did not get any pears +for her because she was ill-disposed toward +Mr. Dupont, who was a violinist in the royal +orchestra.</p> + +<p>Martin became eager; he threw on his clothes +in a hurry and came down by the steps.</p> + +<p>Lotta screamed after him, «Aren’t you going +to wash and comb your hair before——»</p> + +<p>But Martin was in the yard by this time. Mrs. +Lundgren at once took him under her protection.</p> + +<p>«Throw down a pear to Martin, John. Hold +up your cap, little boy, and you shall have +a pear.»</p> + +<p>A pear fell into the cap. But now Martin +couldn’t find his penknife to peel the pear.</p> + +<p>«Give me the pear; I’ll peel it for you,» said +Mrs. Lundgren.</p> + +<p>With that she took the pear, bit into it with +her big yellow teeth, and tore off a piece of the +skin. Martin opened his eyes very wide and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>grew red in the face. Now he didn’t want to +have any pear at all.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dupont lay at his window in his shirt +sleeves, smoking a pipe, with a red skull-cap +on his head. He now leaned out and laughed. +Mrs. Lundgren got angry.</p> + +<p>«That’s a spoiled child,» she said.</p> + +<p>John now triumphantly held up the last pear, +and the children hurrahed and shouted, but +he stuffed it into his trousers pocket. But then +Willie found still another, and this was the +very last. He caught sight of Ida Dupont standing +with tears in her eyes over by the wall, +and at that he gallantly tossed his pear into +her apron. Then there was another hurrah; the +pear tree was stripped.</p> + +<p>Now Mrs. Heggbom came out:</p> + +<p>«Lord in heaven what a clatter, and Heggbom +lying at his death! Down out of the tree with +you, you little ragamuffins!»</p> + +<p>Heggbom had been sick in bed awhile ago, +and his wife’s imagination often turned back +to that comparatively happy time.</p> + +<p>The boys had come down from the tree. Their +mother took John by the hair and Willie by +the ear to lead them in. But Mrs. Lundgren +felt somewhat huffed; she had to a certain extent +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>presided over the tumult. Furthermore, +she enjoyed scolding and therefore did not +miss the opportunity of showing Mrs. Heggbom +with some sharpness the unsuitability of +making such a disturbance. The latter let go +her boys so as to set her arms akimbo, and +there was a big set-to. Listeners streamed up, +and all the kitchen windows were opened wide.</p> + +<p>At last a voice broke through the quarreling: +«Sh! The Secretary!»</p> + +<p>Everything became quiet; Secretary Oldhusen +had the largest floor and was the finest tenant +of the house. He was dressed in a long tight-fitting +frock coat and carried under his arm +a worn leather portfolio. When he had come +down the steps he stood still and took a pinch +of snuff. Thereupon he walked slowly out +through the gate with the preoccupied and +troubled mien of a statesman.</p> + +<p>Martin and Ida slipped out into the street hand +in hand. They ventured on for a few steps beyond +the gate, then they stood in the street +and blinked at the sun.</p> + +<p>The street was lined with wooden houses and +tile roofs and green trees. The house where +Martin lived was the only large stone house +on the street. Long Row, diagonally across +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>from it, lay in shadow; a low, dirt-gray range +of houses. Only really poor people lived there, +Martin’s mother said. Only scum, said Mrs. +Lundgren. At the dye-house a little farther +down the street there was no hurrying; the +dyer stood at his gate in slippers and white +linen jacket and chatted with his wife in the +warehouse. Even outside the corner tavern +things were quiet. A brewery wagon had +stopped in front of it, and the horse stood with +his forefeet tied, eating oats out of a nosebag +that hung on his muzzle.</p> + +<p>The clock in the near-by church struck ten.</p> + +<p>Ida pointed down the street. «There comes +the old goat woman.»</p> + +<p>The goat woman came with her two goats; one +she led with a cord, the other was free. The +Secretary’s little granddaughter had whooping-cough +and drank goat’s milk.</p> + +<p>«Yes, and there comes the ragman.»</p> + +<p>The ragman sidled in through the gate with +his pack on his back and his greasy stick. +People said he had seen better days.</p> + +<p>Two drunken men came out of the tavern and +reeled along the street arm in arm. A policeman +in white linen trousers walked up and +down, a copy of the <i>Fatherland</i> sticking out of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>his hip pocket. A flock of chickens trailed +out from the yard of Long Row, the cock at +their head. The policeman stopped, took half +a roll out of his pocket, and began to feed +them.</p> + +<p>«What shall we do?» asked Ida.</p> + +<p>«I don’t know,» replied Martin.</p> + +<p>He looked very much at a loss.</p> + +<p>«Would you like to have my pear?»</p> + +<p>Ida took the pear out of her pocket and held +it under Martin’s nose. It looked very tempting.</p> + +<p>«We can share,» proposed Martin.</p> + +<p>«Yes, that’s so, we can share.»</p> + +<p>«But I have no knife to cut it with.»</p> + +<p>«That doesn’t matter. You bite first and then +I will.»</p> + +<p>Martin bit, and Ida bit. Martin forgot he had +wanted the pear peeled.</p> + +<p>Now somebody called for Martin, and the next +moment grandmother came out and took him +by the hand.</p> + +<p>«What in Heaven’s name are you thinking of +today? Aren’t you going to comb your hair +and wash and eat your breakfast? The mischief’s +in the boy.»</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> + +<p>Grandmother was pretending to be cross, but +Martin only laughed.</p> + +<p>In the gateway they met Heggbom; he was +walking a bit unsteadily. He avoided them by +a long tack and removed his cap very politely +while he spluttered away at his song:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«I’d off to Turkey and never I’d rest</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till I’d bought me a hundred lasses.»</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The yard had grown quiet. Mrs. Heggbom’s +fat red cat lay on the ash barrel purring with +half-closed eyes, and below the rats stole in +and out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-III-"> + —III— + </h3> + + +<p>On a gray October morning Martin received +permission from his mother to go down and +play with Ida Dupont.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dupont had two small rooms, one flight +up. At this time of day he was away at rehearsal, +so Martin and Ida were alone.</p> + +<p>It was a dark and somber day. The inner room +lay in semi-twilight, with a high Venetian +blind in front of the window. When one +pushed aside a corner of the blind, one could +see between two gray house gables a part of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>the great black church cupola. «Bing bong!» +went the bells.</p> + +<p>Ida showed Martin a peep-show box with +tinted pictures. There were white castles and +gardens with colored lanterns in long gleaming +rows, yellow and red and blue. There were +strange cities with churches and bridges, and +steamboats and big ships on a wide river. And +there were halls illuminated with radiant candelabra, +but what looked like lights were just +little holes made with pins. It all looked so +big and alive when one saw it in the box. It +almost moved; there was surely something +magical about it.</p> + +<p>«I got that from mamma,» declared Ida.</p> + +<p>«But where is your mamma?»</p> + +<p>«She’s away.»</p> + +<p>Martin looked surprised.</p> + +<p>«How—away?»</p> + +<p>«She has gone off with a strange gentleman. +But sometimes she writes me letters that papa +reads to me, and sometimes I get pretty things +from her that she sends.»</p> + +<p>Martin became very inquisitive. He wanted to +learn more but didn’t know just how he ought +to ask.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + +<p>However, Ida now caught Martin by both +shoulders and looked very impressive.</p> + +<p>«Do you know what we’ll do now?» she +asked. «We’ll dress up.»</p> + +<p>She pulled out a bureau drawer and began to +take out red bodices of satin, silk, and rep with +a multitude of ribbons and rosettes; silk +gloves, silk stockings, and long veils of lace—pink, +blue, and white.</p> + +<p>«I got this from mamma, too, when she was +in the ballet.»</p> + +<p>She took a thin, light blue veil with silver +spangles and draped it around Martin’s head. +Then he was given a red bodice, a shawl of +silver gauze, and a white skirt.</p> + +<p>«My, but you look funny!» said Ida. «Just +like a girl.»</p> + +<p>Martin looked at himself in the glass and they +both roared with laughter.</p> + +<p>«Come here,» said Ida, «and I’ll put mustaches +on you.»</p> + +<p>Martin didn’t think mustaches would fit, if +he was to be a girl. But Ida didn’t mind about +that; she blackened a cork over a candle and +traced big black mustaches on Martin, then +she put black eyebrows on herself. After that +they looked into the mirror again and laughed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p> + +<p>«It’s so handsome to have black eyebrows,» +said Ida. «Don’t you think I’m handsome?»</p> + +<p>«Uhm,» said Martin.</p> + +<p>Ida was full of resources.</p> + +<p>«If you’ll be terribly nice, we’ll have a banquet.»</p> + +<p>She went to a cupboard and hunted out a half-filled +bottle of wine and a couple of green +glasses. Then she laid the cloth on a toilet +table and filled the glasses.</p> + +<p>Martin’s eyes grew big.</p> + +<p>«Does your papa let you?»</p> + +<p>«Oh, yes. He lets me do whatever I like. My +papa is nice. Is your papa nice?»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» answered Martin.</p> + +<p>They clinked glasses and drank. It was a sweet +and pleasant wine, and its dark red shone +splendidly in the green glasses.</p> + +<p>Outside it had begun to snow. There were +great heavy flakes; the window sill was already +white. It was the first snowfall, and the church +bells rang in the black cupola: «Bing bong, +bing bong!» Martin and Ida knelt on a chair +with their arms around each other’s necks +and their noses pressed against the pane.</p> + +<p>But Ida poured out more wine and clinked +glasses with Martin. Then she took down an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>old violin from the wall and began to play, and +while she played she danced and swayed, +wearing a white veil. It sounded very queer +the way Ida played the violin. Martin held +his ears, laughed, sung, and screamed. But +then Martin began to notice a creepy feeling +down his back, and he recalled that his mother +had said Ida Dupont had fleas.</p> + +<p>... Martin was in the sleeping alcove, peeping +about. Farthest away in the semi-darkness +was an image of the madonna behind two half-burned +wax candles, and below hung a crucifix.</p> + +<p>Martin stared in astonishment.</p> + +<p>«What’s that?» he asked.</p> + +<p>Ida became very solemn and answered in a low +voice, nearly whispering, «That is our religion.»</p> + +<p>Mr. Dupont was a Catholic.</p> + +<p>«Wait,» said Ida, «sit over there and be quiet, +and I’ll teach you our religion.»</p> + +<p>Ida swathed herself in pink tulle with gold +spangles. Then she advanced and lighted the +candles under the madonna, two calm bright +flames. On a little stand below the crucifix +she lighted a pastille of incense. In long blue +clouds the incense curled from under the curtain +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>of the alcove, and the air grew heavy with +a strong spicy fragrance.</p> + +<p>The madonna glowed like a theatre queen +with red, blue, and gold, and the stars on her +mantle blinked and sparkled in the light of +the wax candles.</p> + +<p>Martin shivered with delight.</p> + +<p>But Ida fell on her knees before the madonna. +Her thick, dark-red plaits glowed like bright +copper in the candlelight. She muttered something +which Martin did not understand, and +made strange gestures with her hands.</p> + +<p>«What’s that?» inquired Martin; «why do +you act so?»</p> + +<p>«Tst! That is our religion.»</p> + +<p>And Ida stayed on in the alcove. Her large +black eyes had a sparkling glow. But Martin +had an odd feeling of heaviness in the head.</p> + +<p>«Come here and join in,» bade Ida. «Don’t +you think it’s beautiful?»</p> + +<p>Martin sat down on the edge of the bed and +tried to imitate Ida’s gestures. But soon he began +to nod. His head was so heavy, so heavy.</p> + +<p>When Mr. Dupont came home, the two children +were lying asleep on the bed. The wax +candles had burned out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-IV-"> + —IV— + </h3> + + +<p>Autumn advanced over the earth, and in +the city where Martin lived the houses were +gray and black with rain and smoke, and the +days grew shorter.</p> + +<p>But when the afternoon came and the dusk +fell, Martin Birck’s father often sat by the fire +and looked at the embers. He was no longer +young. He had a smooth-shaven face with +sharply marked features, like an actor’s or a +priest’s; and he had a way of laughing to himself +without saying anything, which inspired +respect and a certain feeling of insecurity. But +when he laughed in this way his laugh was +not taken for weakness or imbecility by his +fellows, for there was nothing satiric in his +temperament; he was merely laughing at an +anecdote he had read in the morning paper, or +at a couple of dogs that had barked at the +lions around Charles XIII’s statue when he +had passed through the square at noon on his +way home from the office. For Martin Birck’s +father was a government clerk. Although his +salary was not large and he had no private +means, he knew how to arrange things so that +he and his family could lead a comparatively +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>carefree existence, for his taste was given only +to innocent and simple pleasures, and no feeling +of vanity drove him to seek association +with people who were above him in rank or +fortune. He was the son of a mechanic, and +when he chanced to think about his lot in life, +he did not compare it with that of his superiors +or his wealthy comrades but recalled instead +the poor home from which he had come. +He decided then that he was lucky and only +wished that the luck he had should never be +dimmed. He was fond of his wife and children +and loved nothing in the world as much as +his home. When he was free from his official +duties he liked to work with his hands. He +mended broken furniture; he could in an +emergency even repair the old kitchen clock, +which had flowers painted on its face and +great brass weights on chains. He also manufactured +funny and ingenious playthings for +his children and neat little ornaments for his +wife on her birthday. Among these was a little +temple of white cardboard. It was adorned +with narrow gold borders, and behind a semicircle +of slender columns was a mirror, which +seemed to double the number of the pillars. A +spiral staircase led to the top of the temple, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>which was surrounded by a balustrade of +marbled paper, the staircase being also of cardboard +covered with marble; but in the bottom +stair was a little drawer which could be pulled +out. In this drawer Martin’s mother found +every year on her birthday a folded banknote +or a little piece of jewelry.</p> + +<p>He also loved music and song. He liked to sing +«Gluntar» with an old student comrade, Uncle +Abraham, who sometimes came to visit him, +and he could improvise on the piano and play +by ear various pieces from his favorite operas.</p> + +<p>But he seldom read anything except his paper.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Martin Birck’s mother, when twilight fell, +often sat at the piano and sang to her own accompaniment. +She had the sweetest of voices. +The songs she sang were such as no one sings +any more. At these times Martin and Maria +would stand behind her stool and listen entranced; +sometimes they tried to join in. There +was a song about a soldier treasuring a canteen +from which he had given a dying prince a +drink on the field of battle. «’Twas from that +His Highness drank,» was the refrain. And +there was another song about a shepherdess +who was tending her flock in a defile among +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>the Alps. Suddenly she heard the roar of an +avalanche and hurried to her charges: «Run +fast, run fast, my lambs!» As Martin’s mother +sang, her hands glided over the yellowed keys +of the instrument. The strings had a brittle, +glassy sound, and the pedals sighed and +groaned. A string was broken in the bass, +and it would buzz now and again.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-022.jpg" alt="Woman with flowers"> +</figure> + +<p>There was a sense of loneliness when she had +stopped singing.</p> + +<p>Martin was drifting here and there. The room +seemed to grow larger and more empty when +twilight came. Finally he turned to grandmother, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>who was sitting by the window reading +the Stockholm <i>Journal</i>.</p> + +<p>«Tell us a story, please, grandmother,» Martin +begged.</p> + +<p>But grandmother didn’t know any new stories, +and the old ones Martin had heard many times +before. Grandmother continued to read the +paper with her glasses far down on her nose.</p> + +<p>«Lord deliver us,» she suddenly exclaimed, +looking up from the paper, «did you see +there’s a Miss Oldhusen has died?»</p> + +<p>«No, is she dead?» remarked Martin’s father.</p> + +<p>«Do you suppose she was a sister of the Secretary?»</p> + +<p>«Goodness, no; she was his aunt,» said grandmother. +«Her name was Pella, Pella Oldhusen. +I remember her very well, I met her at Vaxholm. +A plaguy smart and amusing woman +she was, but she was a kleptomaniac. Her acquaintances +used to say, ‹Be careful, my dear, +and don’t leave anything around loose this +evening; Pella Oldhusen’s coming!› There +was a girl she took up. When the girl was to be +got ready for her first communion, Miss Oldhusen +stole her old housekeeper’s linen underskirts +that hung in the same wardrobe with +her own clothes and had them made up for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>the girl. It’s God’s own truth; I heard it from +a lady that knew all about her and the whole +family. ‹Look here, Miss Oldhusen,› the +housekeeper said to her, for she had been with +her many years and knew her peculiarities; +‹look here, Miss Oldhusen, there’s been +thieves in the wardrobe! And the mischief’s +in it, they’ve stolen all my underskirts, but +not yours, though they were hanging side by +side.› ‹Could anyone imagine such rascals?› +said Pella. ‹That’s frightfully annoying, but +what can I do about it?› Just the same she gave +the housekeeper money for new linen a while +afterward, for she was well off and not stingy +neither; but the girl went to the blessed Lord’s +Supper in the stolen underskirts.»</p> + +<p>Martin and Maria listened with wide-open +mouths. Grandmother had told a story, after +all. Of such stories she knew plenty.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Father had lighted a cigar and pushed his +chair nearer the fire. He now motioned to Martin +and Maria: «Come, children, now we’ll +play.»</p> + +<p>The blaze had almost burned out. Father broke +apart two or three empty match boxes and +built out of the fragments a house away deep +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>in the porcelain stove. He put in a lot of +matches as pillars and beams and lastly twisted +up a bit of stiff paper; that was a tower. At +the top of the twist he cut a hole for a chimney. +All this was now a stately castle like the +old Stockholm castles in Dahlberg’s <i>Swedish +Monuments</i>. When it was done, father set fire +to all the corners.</p> + +<p>It hissed and sputtered and burned.</p> + +<p>«Look—just look how it’s burning!—now the +farthest corner is catching—now the eastern +gate’s on fire, now it’s falling!—and the tower’s +burning, the tower’s tumbling——»</p> + +<p>«Now it’s over.»</p> + +<p>«Again, papa,» begged Martin. «Oh, again! +Just once more!»</p> + +<p>«No, not just once more,» said father; «it’s +no fun the second time.»</p> + +<p>Martin begged and implored. But father went +over to the piano and stroked his wife’s hair.</p> + +<p>Martin remained sitting in front of the fire. +His cheeks burned but he couldn’t tear himself +away. It flamed and glowed so finely away +in there. It glimmered and glowed and burned.</p> + +<p>Finally grandmother came, shut the damper, +and put down the slats. Then Martin went to +the window.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>The sun was gone long ago. It had cleared +a while, but murky cloud masses were driving +along in broken lines over the thin, glassy +blue of the sky. Long Row lay in deep twilight. +The lindens and cherry trees of the garden +were stripped of leaves, and here and +there a light was already gleaming in a window +from out the dark net of boughs. Down +on the street the lamplighter went about his +task; he was old and bent, and had a leather +cap which came far down over his forehead. +Now he came to the lamp just in front of the +window on the opposite side of the street; +when he had lighted it, the whole room brightened. +The white lace curtains outlined their +broken pattern on the ceiling and walls, while +the calla lilies and fuchsias painted fantastic +shadows.</p> + +<p>It grew darker and darker.</p> + +<p>One could see so far up above—far off over +the low buildings of the old suburb with its +wooden houses and gardens. One could see +Humlegård Park with the roof of the rotunda +between the old naked lindens. And farthest +off in the west rose a gray outline, the Observatory +on its hill.</p> + +<p>The deep and empty blue of the October heavens +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>became still more deep and still more +empty. Toward the west it was suffused with +a red that looked dirty with mist and soot.</p> + +<p>Martin traced outlines with his finger on the +pane, which had begun to be damp.</p> + +<p>«Will it soon be Christmas, grandma?»</p> + +<p>«Oh, not for a good bit, child.»</p> + +<p>Martin stood a long while with his nose +pressed against the pane staring at the sky, a +melancholy twilight sky with clouds of pale +red and gray.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-V-"> + —V— + </h3> + + +<p>But when the lamp was lighted and they sat +around the table, each with his own work or +book or paper, Martin went off and sat in a +corner. For he had suddenly become sad without +knowing why. There he sat in the dark, +staring in at the circle of yellow light in which +the others sat and talked, while he felt himself +outside, abandoned and forgotten.</p> + +<p>It did not help that Maria hunted out an old +volume of <i>Near and Far</i> to show him Garibaldi +and the war in Poland and Emperor +Napoleon III with his pointed mustaches; he +had seen them all many times. Nor did it help +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>that she gave him a piece of paper and taught +him to fold it into the shape of a salt-cellar, +a crow, or a catamaran; for, though he did not +know it, Martin only longed for some one to +say or do something that would make him cry. +It was therefore he sat moody and silent, listening +to the rain that whipped against the +window, for it had begun to rain again, and +the wind shook the glass.</p> + +<p>What was that? Did he suddenly hear father +say to mother: «Perhaps you’re right that we +ought to try to sell the piano and buy a pianino +on instalment. It goes out of tune in a couple +of weeks, and a pianino would be prettier.»</p> + +<p>Martin gave a start at the words «sell the +piano.» He had no clear idea of what a pianino +was, but he didn’t believe it could be a real +piano; he pictured it rather as something that +was worked with a handle. He didn’t believe +any other instrument could sound as beautiful +as their piano. He loved every dent and every +crack in the red mahogany frame, for he himself +had made most of them, and he remembered +almost every key from its special color. +Sell the piano! To his ears it sounded like +something impossible. It was almost as if he +had heard his parents calmly sitting and talking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>about selling grandmother and buying an +aunt instead.</p> + +<p>Martin began to cry before he knew it.</p> + +<p>«Mamma,» said Maria, «Martin’s crying.»</p> + +<p>«What are you crying for, Martin?» his +mother asked.</p> + +<p>Martin only sobbed.</p> + +<p>«He’s tired and sleepy,» declared grandmother. +«He’d better go to bed.»</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>While Martin, still sobbing, made the rounds +to say good night, Lotta came in with the tea-tray. +She had a very solemn expression as she +said, «I’m sorry to have to tell you that Heggbom +is dead.»</p> + +<p>Everything became silent in the room. Martin +stopped crying.</p> + +<p>Grandmother clasped her hands together: +«Well, and has he really passed away? Has +it come that suddenly?... Glory be! and +has he passed away? Ah, ’twas the brandy!... +But it was for the best that he should die, +though ’twill be hard for the missus; he was +the porter, anyway, and maintained his wife +and children.»</p> + +<p>«He died just at seven,» said Lotta.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> + +<p>But when no one said anything she went out +into the kitchen again.</p> + +<p>«It might be a good idea to send out a list +to the neighbors and start a little subscription,» +said mother.</p> + +<p>Martin was sent to bed. His mother sat at the +side of his bed and said prayers with him. He +was let off with «God Who hast us in Thy +care,» because he was so tired. Otherwise he +used to say «Our Father» and «Lord, let Thy +blessing rest upon us» besides.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Martin lay awake a long time listening to the +rain as it plashed against the window, for he +was not at all sleepy; he had only said so to +get out of the long prayers that he didn’t understand. +It is impossible for a little child +to associate any idea with such expressions +as «hallowed be Thy name» or «Thy kingdom +come.» He lay thinking about Heggbom and +wondering if he could get to heaven. He always +smelled of brandy.</p> + +<p>Martin was afraid of the dark. When Lotta +came in with a lighted candle to fix something +in the room, he asked her to let the candle +stay.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<p>«You must sleep, Martin,» said Lotta. «Heggbom +will come and bite you if you don’t.»</p> + +<p>With that she went out and took the candle.</p> + +<p>Martin began to cry afresh. The wind whistled +in the window chinks, every now and then a +gate was shut with a bang, and a dog howled +outside. Before mother drew the curtains +Martin thought there was a red glow in the +sky. Perhaps there was a fire in South Stockholm....</p> + +<p>There was turmoil and clamor down on the +street. Drunken men coming out of the tavern—blows +and screams. Heavy steps on the pavement, +some one running and some one pursuing—and +a cry of «Police, police!»</p> + +<p>Martin drew the covers over his head and +cried himself to sleep.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-VI-"> + —VI— + </h3> + + +<p>White winter came with sleigh bells and +snow and ice-flowers on the windowpane. +«They are the dead summer flowers come back +again,» said Martin’s mother. Evergreen forests +out in the country came from the darkness +and solitude into the city streets and +squares, and when the Christmas bells rang in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>the holy day, there stood in Martin’s home a +dark and timid fir which smelt of the woods, +till evening came and it stood a-glitter with +candles, white candles and colored candles, +and was covered with winter apples and sugar-plums +with mottoes which were so stupid that +even Martin and Maria could see how stupid +they were. All the glory of Christmas passed—it +was like turning the page of a picture-book—and +the star of New Year’s Eve was burning +across the white roofs, and people said +to each other, «Good night, and thanks for +the year!» With a shivering sensation Martin +thought of the line of gray winter days that +were waiting, to which he could see no ending, +for it was interminably long till summer, and +still longer till next Christmas.</p> + +<p>New Year’s morning he was waked while it +was still dark to go to early service. Half +asleep he scrambled through the snow by the +side of his parents, and as they came around +the corner, there stood the church like a giant +lantern shining out across the white square +where people were crawling in across the snow +from all directions. Within the church was +the organ’s roar and singing and many shining +candles, and Martin felt happy and good +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>and thought this was just the right way to +begin the new year; and when the minister +began to preach, he went straight to sleep. +But when he woke up, the pale hue of dawn +was shining in through the windows in the +cupola and his mother roused him with, +«Now we’ll go home and drink our coffee.»</p> + +<p>So then they went home, their hearts full of +the most beautiful intentions, for Martin understood +without telling that it was this sort +of thing the minister had preached about. +Later in the morning Martin and Maria were +sent around on the New Year’s visits to Uncle +Jan and Aunt Louisa and other uncles and +aunts, where they were given cakes and wine +and sugar-plums from the Christmas trees. +But at Uncle Abraham’s there was no Christmas +tree, for he was a widower and had no +children but lived alone with an old housekeeper. +Uncle Abraham was a doctor and had +often cured Martin and Maria of measles and +scarlatina and pains in the chest. He had a +black beard and a long crooked nose, for he +was a Jew. He had also a parrot that could +swear in French, and a black tomcat. The cat +was named Kolmodin and he was the cleverest +cat in the world, for when he was outside the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>office door and wanted to get in, he didn’t mew +as other cats do, but got up on his hind feet, +caught his claws in the bell-cord, and pulled +it hard. This year when Martin and Maria came +to wish Uncle Abraham a Happy New Year, he +was sitting alone with his bottle of wine on +the table playing chess with himself.</p> + +<p>The room was large and half dark and full +of books. Outside the snow was falling in great +flakes. Uncle Abraham stuffed their pockets +full of goodies, made the parrot swear in +French, and was very cordial; but he didn’t +say much, and in front of the fire which +glowed in the porcelain stove sat the cat Kolmodin +staring gloomily at his master. Martin +and Maria stood silent and looked at each +other with a feeling of oppression. For they +had more than once heard their parents say +that Uncle Abraham was not a happy man and +that he never was really cheerful.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-VII-"> + —VII— + </h3> + + +<p>So now it was the new year. The almanac +which Martin had given his father for Christmas +had a red cover, whereas the old one had +been blue. Martin also found to his surprise +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>and disappointment that this was the only difference +he could see between the new year +and the old, that the days passed as they had +passed before with ringing of bells and snow +and a somber sky, with weariness of the old +games and the old stories, and with the longing +to be big. He longed for that time but +feared it too. For his mother had often pointed +at the ragman who had seen better days and +said that if Martin wouldn’t eat his porridge +or his beer-soup and otherwise be a good and +obedient boy, he would come to be just such a +ragman when he was big. When he heard his +mother talk so, he would feel a tightening of +the chest and would see himself slinking in +through the gate at dusk with a pack on his +back and poking in the ash barrel with a black +stick, while father and mother and sister and +grandmother were sitting together around the +lamp as before. For it never occurred to him +to think that his home could be broken up and +dispersed.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-036.jpg" alt="Boy reading at table"> +</figure> + +<p>Snow fell, a great deal of snow. The drifts +grew, and it became sparklingly cold. Martin +had to keep indoors with his alphabet book +and multiplication tables, with his color-box +and jumping-jacks and all splendid things—already +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>faded—which Christmas had left behind. +Among the jumping-jacks there was one +called the Red Turk which he was fonder of +than the others, because Uncle Abraham, who +had given it to him, had said it was the jolliest +jumping-jack in all the world. «You see,» +he had said one evening, «in itself it is neither +amusing nor remarkable that an old pasteboard +man kicks about when one pulls the +strings. But the Red Turk is no common +pasteboard man; he can think and choose the +same as we. And when you jerk the strings and +he begins to prance, he says to himself: ‹I am +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>a being with free will, I kick just as I want to +and exclusively for my own entertainment. +Hoho! there’s nothing so delightful as to +kick.› But when you stop jerking the string, +he decides that he is tired and says to himself: +‹To the deuce with the kicking! The finest +thing there is is to hang on a hook on the wall +and stay entirely still.› Yes, he is the jolliest +jumping-jack in the world.»</p> + +<p>Martin didn’t understand much of this, but he +understood that the Red Turk was amusing +and set greater store by him than ever.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So the days passed, and with Twelfth Night +began small family parties with stripping of +Christmas trees and shadow games and doll +theaters and magic lanterns with colored pictures +on a ghostly white sheet. On the way +home the stars sparkled, and father pointed to +the heaven and said, «That’s the Milky Way, +and there is the Dipper.»</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-VIII-"> + —VIII— + </h3> + + +<p>But one morning when Martin awoke he +saw that the heavens shone with a brighter +blue than they had for a long time and that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>there was a dripping from the eaves and the +naked branches of the pear tree. And while +he was sitting up in bed looking out at the +shining blue, Maria came in with a branch +that seemed to blossom in a hundred colors; +but it was not flowers—it was tinted feathers. +She flicked him with the branch and danced +and sang that it was Shrove Tuesday and she +had a holiday from school, hurrah! And there +were to be buns with almond icing for dinner.</p> + +<p>Then they took the feathers off the branch and +dressed up in them and played Indians and +white men, but they were both Indians.</p> + +<p>But mother took the switch and set it in the +window in a jug filled with water in the full +sunlight. The room faced the east and this +was the morning sun. And lo and behold! it +wasn’t many days before brown-and-greenish +buds came out here and there on the twigs, +they swelled and grew larger, until one day +they had broken out and changed into frail +light-green leaves; the whole branch had become +verdant, and it was spring.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>One afternoon a beam of sunlight fell into +the hall which faced the west.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> + +<p>«Look at the sun, children,» said mother. +«That’s our first afternoon sun this year.»</p> + +<p>The sunbeam fell on the polished glass of the +candelabra, where it broke and strewed rainbow-colored +patches all over the room on the +furniture and wall paper. Just then father +passed through the hall and set the three-sided +bits of glass in motion with a slight +blow of his hand. There was a tumultuous +dance of the colored patches around the walls, +a dance as of fluttering butterflies. Martin and +Maria began a chase after them. They ran +till they were flushed and hot, striking their +hands against the walls, and when they saw a +patch on their hand instead of on the wall +paper, they screamed with delight, «Now I’ve +got it!»</p> + +<p>But in the next second it glided away, the sunbeam +paled, and the butterflies, weary of fluttering +and shining, departed—Martin saw the +last of them expire on his hand.</p> + +<p>But it wasn’t spring yet after all.</p> + +<p>The snow fell again, wet snow that melted at +once and was dirty at once; again the bells +rang in the black cupola, and it was Good Friday. +Martin and Maria were in church, but +they might not sit with their parents, for their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>parents sat far away in the choir in a multitude +of solemn-looking people dressed in black. +They were dressed in black themselves, father +in a frock coat with a white cravat, and everything +was black: the red on the pulpit and +altar was gone, and there was black instead; +the priests had black capes, a black cross rose +menacingly from the leaden-hued cloud of the +altar-piece far away in the dusk of the choir, +and black-gray sky lay above all, staring in +through the belfry windows of the cupola. +Martin could not go to sleep as usual, because +everything was so uncanny: the choir moaned +and lamented, the minister looked sinister and +forbidding and talked about blood, and a dog +howled out in the churchyard....</p> + +<p>Martin was delighted with all this, although +he didn’t realize it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Spring at last, real spring.... It came first +when the Royal Family drove out to the big +park with their plumed and golden equipage. +How the whole day shone, how radiant it was +with blue and sunshine and spring around the +chimneys and roofs, around the weathercock +on the church tower! In Martin’s street the +lindens were already out, and over the leaning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>fences hovered clouds of white blossom, +cherry blossom, and hawthorn. On the square +and along the Avenue the people thronged, +the whole city was out in bright and gay-colored +costumes, and in front of the Life +Guards’ barracks stood the light blue guardsmen, +whom Martin loved and worshiped, on +duty with sabers drawn. The Royal Family +drove past in a cloud of plumes and gold, the +crowd cheered and Martin cheered, and then +everybody went out to the park to drink fruit +juices and mineral water at Bellmansruh. All +around whined violins and street-organs, and +Martin felt completely happy. But on the way +back they stopped a moment to look at the +Punch and Judy theater. The landscape was +already beginning to darken, but people still +flocked around the puppet theater where +Punch was just going to beat his wife to death. +Martin pressed close to his mother. He saw +mouths open in a broad laugh around him in +the dusk; he understood nothing, but the +sound of the cudgel on the doll’s head frightened +him—were people laughing at that bad +man there beating his wife? Then came the +creditor, and him too Punch beat to death. +The policeman and the devil he treated similarly, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>till finally Death lured him into his cauldron, +and that was the end. Martin couldn’t +laugh or weep either; he only stared abashed +and terrified into this new world, which was +so unlike his own. On the way home he was +cold and tired. The sun was gone, it grew +darker and darker; the king had long since +driven home to his castle, and drunken men +scuffled and bawled around him. The anemones +which Martin had picked at the edge of +the wood were withered, and he threw them +away to be trampled into the mire.</p> + +<p>But when he was home at last and it was night +and Martin lay in his bed asleep, he dreamed +that father hit mother on the head with a big +cudgel.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-IX-"> + —IX— + </h3> + + +<p>Summer skies and summer sun, a white +house with green trees....</p> + +<p>Martin’s parents had rented several low-ceiled +rooms with rickety white furniture and the +bluest window-blinds in the world for the +small square windows. Close to these windows +passed the state highroad. Here wagoners and +wayfarers from the islands of the Malar went +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>by continually to and from the city, all stopping +to pay the bridge toll, for the white house +belonged to the bridge-tender and stood just +at the abutment of Nockeby bridge. The +bridge-tender sat every evening on his porch, +which was twined about with hop vines, drinking +toddy, holding out his money-box to the +passers-by, chatting and telling yarns, for +he had been a sea captain and voyaged to many +strange lands. But now he was a little old +white-haired man, who had for many years +had the tenancy of the bridge and had become +a well-to-do citizen.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the first day, when the +packing boxes, trunks, and clothes-baskets +were still standing higgledy-piggledy in the +room,—which still looked a little strange, +though every wardrobe and chair, every flower +in the wall paper seemed to say, «We shall +soon get acquainted,»—and while the evening +meal with butter and cheese and some small +broiled fish was spread by the window, Martin +sat silent on the corner of a chest surveying +the strange and new picture: the gray highroad +with telegraph poles in which the wind +sang, and the dark shadowy figures of the +horses and peasants outlined against the greenish-blue +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>western sky. Obliquely across the way +a little to one side was a slope with a clump +of oaks, whose verdure stood out strong and +heavy in the summer twilight. Among these +oaks was one that was naked and black and +could not put out leaves like the others, and +in its branches the crows had built a nest.</p> + +<p>Martin could not take his eyes from this black +tree with the crow’s nest between the branches. +He thought he knew this tree, that he had seen +it before, or heard a story about it.</p> + +<p>And he dreamed of it that night.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Summer skies, summer days. Green fields, +green trees....</p> + +<p>The fields were full of flowers, and Martin and +Maria picked them and tied them up in bouquets +for their mother. And Maria said to +Martin: «Look out for snakes! If you step on +a snake, he’ll think you did it on purpose, and +then he’ll bite you.» So Martin trod as carefully +as he could in the high grass. She taught +him too that it was a great sin to pick the white +strawberry blossoms, because it was from them +the strawberries grew. They agreed that the +first one who saw a strawberry blossom should +say, «Free for that one!» And the one who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>had said it should then have the right to pick +it when it was ripe. But when they came to the +slope with the oaks, it was all white with blossoms +under the trees. Maria, who was the first +to see it, cried, «Free for the whole lot!» But +when she saw that Martin did not look pleased, +she immediately proposed that they should divide +the treasure, so they drew an imaginary +line from one tree to another and in this way +divided the whole slope into two parts. To +the right of the line was Maria’s strawberry +field and to the left was Martin’s. After that +they sat down in the shade of an oak and arranged +their flowers as they thought best, and +Maria taught Martin to stick in some fine +heart-shaped grass among the buttercups and +ox-eye daisies and to tie up the bouquets with +long straws. But Martin soon grew tired with +his flowers, for he had forgot he had picked +them to give to his mother. He let them lie in +the grass and lay down on his back among +them to look at the clouds that were drifting +across the blue heavens high above his head. +They were like white dogs, small shaggy white +dogs. Perhaps they were white dogs. When +people die, they go to heaven; but dogs, who +have no regular soul, can’t very well get so +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>high up. They can jump around outside and +play with each other. But their masters must +come out to them sometimes, and then the +little dogs leap up on their masters and lick +them and are ever so happy....</p> + +<p>White clouds, summer clouds.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But the finest thing of all was the long bridge +and the lake and all the steamboats that blew +their whistles when they were still far off so +that the bridge should open and let them +through. Martin soon taught himself to know +them all: the <i>Fyris</i>, the <i>Garibaldi</i>, the <i>Bragë</i>, +which was never in a hurry; the lovely blue +<i>Tynnelsö</i>, and the brown <i>Enköping</i>, which +was called the <i>Coffee-pot</i>, because it sputtered +like boiling coffee. Each boat had for him its +particular expression, so that he could distinguish +them one from another a long way +off. They helped him to keep account of the +time too. When the <i>Tynnelsö</i> was passing +through the bridge, it was time to go home and +have breakfast; and when the <i>Runa</i> blew with +its hoarse throat, the <i>Bragë</i> was not far away, +and it was in the <i>Bragë</i> that papa came from +the city. There were tow-boats too with their +long lines of barges; these barges often got +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>stuck in the gap of the bridge, and nothing in +the world was so much fun as to hear the bargemen +swear. But on days when the lake was +green, with white foam, and the waves plashed +high up over the bridge, no steamboats could +vie with the coasting sloops for first place in +Martin’s heart. In every skipper he saw a hero +who defied wind and wave to reach some +strange, unknown port, for it never occurred +to him to think that they only sailed to Stockholm +to sell the wood, hay, or pottery they had +on board. These cargoes, however, did not +quite please him, for he could not help their +suggesting against his will some dark suspicion +of an ulterior motive in the skipper, +and in the depths of his heart he liked best +the sloops that came empty from the city. +Then too these danced most boldly over the +waves, and they steered toward regions where +Martin had never been, far beyond Tyska Botten +and Blackeberg—which were the boundary +of the known world.</p> + +<p>It was there too that the sun went down every +evening in a red and glittering land of promise. +Martin was entirely certain it was just +there the sun went down, right behind the +cape, and not anywhere else. He could see it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>all so plainly. He did not, however, imagine +that the people living over there could see the +sun at close range or that they need be afraid +of its falling on their heads. If another boy +had come to him and said such a thing, Martin +would have thought him very stupid. For it +is just the same with children as with grown-ups: +they often form the strangest conceptions +of the world; but if any one shows them +the consequences of their ideas, they say he +is very stupid, or that it is improper to joke +about serious things.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Summertime, strawberry time.</p> + +<p>At that period summer was different from +now. There was a joy that filled the days and +evenings, pressing even into one’s nightly +dreams; and morning was joy personified. But +one morning Martin awoke earlier than usual, +and when he heard a little bird twittering in +the privet hedge before his window and saw +the sun was shining, he sat up in bed and +wanted to dress and go out. Then his mother +came in and said he was to lie still a little +while yet, because it was his birthday, and +Maria was working at something outside which +he mustn’t see before it was ready. She kissed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>him and said that now he was seven he ought +to be really industrious and good in the summer, +so that he wouldn’t need to be ashamed +in the autumn when he was to begin school. +But when Martin heard the word «school,» he +forgot the bird twittering on the hedge and the +sun that was shining, and his throat felt +choked as if he was going to cry; but he controlled +himself and didn’t cry. He didn’t know +very clearly what «school» meant, but it +sounded very harsh and hard.</p> + +<p>To be sure his mother had school for him and +Maria, but that was only for a short while +every day down in the garden, in the lilac arbor, +where butterflies flitted, yellow and white +and blue, and bees hummed, while his mother +told them stories about Joseph in Egypt and +about kings and prophets, and taught them to +make letters after a model. He comprehended +that real school must be something quite different. +But while his heart was troubled over +having to start school in the autumn, they all +came in and congratulated him on his birthday: +papa and grandmother and Maria, and +Maria put on an affected manner and said +with a bow, «I have the honor to congratulate——» +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>But Martin became bashful and +blushed and turned his face to the wall.</p> + +<p>Then they left him alone. But it wasn’t long +before grandmother stuck in her head and +called that the king was coming riding with +fifteen generals to congratulate Martin, and +at the same moment he heard a rumbling over +the bridge as if there was thunder. He jumped +out of bed and threw on his clothes, but the +noise came nearer, there was a cloud of dust +over the road, horses’ hoofs rang on the +ground and the bridge, and there were lightnings +of drawn swords. When he came out on +the porch, the foremost riders had already +passed, but Martin’s mother consoled him +with the fact that the king had not been with +them. Instead it had been almost all his army, +which was on its way to the region of Drottningsholm +for maneuvers. There were hussars +and dragoons and all the artillery from Stockholm, +and the artillerists were shaking like +sacks of potatoes on their caissons and were +gray and black with dust and dirt. But Martin +admired them all the more in that condition +and wondered within himself if it wouldn’t be +better to be an artillerist than a coasting +skipper.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> + +<p>The martial array passed and was gone, a fresh +wind came from the lake and took with it the +odor of dirt and sweat which remained, and +when Martin turned around, there stood beside +the breakfast table a little table set especially +for him; Maria had decorated it with +flowers and green leaves. Then he got bashful +and blushed again, but he was very happy +too, for on the middle of the table stood a cake +which his mother had baked for him, a big +dish full of wild strawberries which Maria +had picked under the oaks, a twenty-five-öre +piece from papa, and a package of stockings +which mother had knitted. Of all these things +Martin cared most for the twenty-five-öre +piece. For he had come to realize that a pair +of stockings was just a pair of stockings, and +a cake was a cake, but a twenty-five-öre piece +was an indefinite number of fulfilled wishes in +any direction whatever up to a certain limit, +and experience had not yet taught him how +narrow was that limit.</p> + +<p>Martin went around and thanked everybody, +and tasted the cake and the berries, and saw +that the stockings were handsome with red +borders, and put the twenty-five-öre piece in a +match box, which was his savings bank. In +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>it up to now there had been a couple of old +copper coins and some small pebbles which he +had come across in the sand and kept because +they were so pretty.</p> + +<p>Then the <i>Bragë</i> blew at Tysk Botten, and papa +had to be off to the city, but Martin was allowed +to go with mamma and grandmother +and Maria to Drottningsholm. There stood the +king’s white summer palace, mirrored in the +bright inlet. The trees in the park were bigger +than any other trees, and the shade under +them was deep and cool. And over the dark +waters of the ponds and canals the white swans +glided with their stiffly outstretched necks, and +Martin imagined that they never troubled +themselves about anything else in the world +than their own white dreams.</p> + +<p>But grandmother had a French roll with her, +which she broke into crumbs and fed to them +as one feeds chickens.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Summer days, pleasure days, cornflowers in +the yellow rye....</p> + +<p>It was near harvest time, and Martin was +walking along the road with his mother. Maria +was on the other side, and now and then she +would pick a cornflower from out of the rye. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>Mother had a pink dress and a straw hat with +a wide brim, and she was talking with them +about mankind and the world and God.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-053.jpg" alt="Rural path"> +</figure> + + +<p>«Look, Martin,» she said, «there are the heavy +and the light ears of grain that we read about +today in the arbor. You remember the full ear +that bowed itself so deeply to the earth because +it had so many grains to carry. The +grains are ground into meal in the mill, and +the meal is baked into bread, and the bread is +good to eat when any one is hungry. But the +empty ear is good for nothing, the farmer +throws it away or gives it to his horse to chew, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>and even the horse doesn’t get any fatter from +it. And yet it raises itself so proudly aloft +and looks down on the other ears which stand +and bend around it.»</p> + +<p>With that mother broke off the proud light +ear and showed Martin that it was quite empty.</p> + +<p>«Such are many among men,» she said. +«You’ll come to see that when you’re big. +You will also see people who go about hanging +their heads to make others think they belong +to the full ears. But they are just the +emptiest of all.</p> + +<p>«But you must also remember, children, that +it is not your part to judge, either now or when +you grow up, whether any one belongs to the +full or the empty ears. Such a thing no man +can rightly know about another. That only +God knows.»</p> + +<p>When mother talked to Martin about God, he +felt at the same time solemn and a little embarrassed, +somewhat as a little dog might feel +when one tries to talk to him as to a person. +For when he heard his mother tell about paradise +and Noah’s ark, he could follow along +very well—he saw it all so clearly before his +eyes, the apple tree and the serpent and all +the animals in the ark. But at the word «God» +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>he could not picture anything definite, either +an old man or a middle-aged man with a black +beard. At the very top of the blue dome in the +church cupola was a great painted eye, and +mother had said this was a symbol of God. +But this solitary eye seemed to Martin so uncanny +and sad. He hardly dared look at it, and +it did not at all help him to comprehend what +God really looked like. He had also had to +learn by heart the Ten Commandments, which +God had written for Moses on Mt. Sinai. But +they seemed only to strengthen his secret suspicion +that God was something that only concerned +the grown-ups. It never could be to +Martin that God spoke when he said, «Thou +shalt have no other gods but me.» Martin +knew neither what an idol looked like nor +what one could do to worship it. That he +should honor his parents came of itself. He +felt no temptation to murder or to steal or to +covet his neighbor’s maid-servant, his ox, or +his ass. And he had no idea how he could +commit adultery; but he resolved he would +try to guard against it anyway, to be on the +safe side.</p> + +<p>«God knows everything, both the present and +the future. He Himself has ordained it all. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>And when you pray to God, Martin, you must +not believe that you with your prayers can in +the slightest alter His will. But still God wishes +men to pray to Him, and therefore you must +do it. You must never give up saying your +evening prayer before you go to sleep, no matter +how big and wise you get. But when you +become big and have to look out for yourself +in the world, you must never forget that you +must depend first and foremost on yourself. +God helps only him who helps himself. And +if it ever happens in life that there is something +you desire deeply, so that you think you +can never be happy again unless you get it—then +you must not pray to God to give it to +you. Try rather to get it for yourself; but if +that is impossible, then pray Him for strength +to renounce your wish. He does not like other +kinds of prayer.»</p> + +<p>So Martin Birck’s mother spoke as they walked +along. And the summer wind whispered +around them and passed on over the field, +and the grain waved.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The bridge-tender, old Moberg, had an assistant +by the name of Johan. Johan was fourteen +or fifteen and soon became Martin’s best +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>friend. He made bows and arrows and bark +boats for Martin, and Martin helped him to +wind up the drawbridge. In the evening, when +he was free, he used also to play hide and seek +and «There’s no robbers in the woods» with +Martin and Maria and a few other children. +But it was neither on account of the bark boats +nor the games that Martin was so fond of +Johan and admired him so extraordinarily. It +was because Johan always had so many wonderful +things to tell about, things that papa +and mamma and grandmother never told +about. It was especially in the dusk that +Johan was wont to be so communicative, when +Martin and he sat on a beam by the opening +in the bridge and waited for the approaching +steamboat, whose lanterns would sooner or +later pop out from behind the cape, first +the green and then the red. At such times +Johan might tell of this, that, or the other +thing. One time it would be about old +Moberg, who used to see tiny little devils +jumping up and down, up and down, in his +toddy glass; it was about them he talked when +he sat muttering to himself and stirring his +glass. But the minister at Lovö was still worse. +Why, he was a friend of Old Spotty himself, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>the whole parish knew that. Anybody could see +that for himself if he thought about it; how +otherwise could he get up in the pulpit and +preach the way he did for a whole hour; where +did he get all his words from? Furthermore +Johan had had to go to him one time on an +errand and had been in his room and had +seen with his own eyes that it was chock-full +of books from floor to ceiling. Oh, yes, he was +in with the Old Boy sure enough!—Or Johan +would tell about a man who had been murdered +on the highroad three years back, quite +near, and would describe the place exactly: +«It was just there where the wood is so thick +on one side, and on the other is a willow alongside +of a telegraph pole. It was an evening in +November that it happened, and now if anybody +goes by at the right time, he can hear the +most terrible groaning in the ditch—— But +they never got the fellow that did it.»</p> + +<p>When Martin heard such things, he squeezed +close to Johan’s arm, and he felt lighter at +heart when the steamboat’s lanterns shone out +of the dark and came nearer, when he heard +the thump-thump of the engine and the captain’s +orders, and they had to hurry to wind +up the drawbridge. When they went home +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>across the bridge, they were both excited with +thoughts of ghosts and murders, and Johan +said to Martin, «Listen, he’s after us!»</p> + +<p>Martin didn’t know whether <i>he</i> was the murderer +or the murdered, but he fancied he heard +steps on the bridge and didn’t dare to look +around. Johan, however, who had a cheerful +disposition, drove off his fear by striking up +a jolly song. He sang to the tune of «There +was an old woman by Konham Square»:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«I go to my death wherever I go, killivillivippombom!»</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>And Martin joined in and sang along with him.</p> + +<p>But when they got to the bridge-tender’s +house, Johan was silent while Martin sang at +the top of his voice:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«I go to my death wherever I go, killivillivippombom!»</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The bridge-tender, old Moberg, was sitting +on his porch, which was embowered in hop +vines, drinking toddy with two farmers in +the light of a round Japanese lantern. He was +an old man who drank toddy every evening, +and people said he couldn’t last much longer. +But he was most unwilling to die. If he heard +any one speak of illness or death, it was to him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>as if he had heard something indecent, or indeed +it was much worse, for indecent talk +rather raised his spirits than offended his ears. +But when he saw Martin coming along the +road and heard him singing a funeral hymn to +the tune of an insolent street song, he got up +and advanced along the road with tottering +steps till he halted in front of Martin. Martin +stopped too and was silent directly. He looked +around for Johan, but Johan had vanished.</p> + +<p>Old Moberg had become blue in the face, as +he said in a trembling voice: «And this child +is supposed to come of respectable people! +These are strange times, I may say.»</p> + +<p>Thereupon he went into the house, without +either drinking his toddy or saying good night +to the farmers, and went to bed.</p> + +<p>But Martin was left alone on the road, and +everything around him had become silent all +of a sudden. He heard only the sound of the +farmers’ sticks as they went off in the dark +without speaking.</p> + +<p>Martin’s parents, however, had heard the +whole affair from the veranda on the side of +the house.</p> + +<p>«Martin, come in!»</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + +<p>Martin was as red as his collar was white. Now +he’d have to give an account of who had taught +him to sing such things. But he said he had +thought of it himself. Father explained to +Martin how dreadfully he had behaved, and +Martin cried and was sent to bed. His mother +cried too when she said prayers with him. She +was frightened and wrought up. For children’s +offenses, like those of adults, are judged more +according to the scandal they have aroused +than according to their inner nature, and Martin’s +misdeed had caused a terrible scandal.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The most beautiful days of summer were gone. +In the daytime there was rain and wind, and +the lake turned green. And at dusk the crows +flapped around the slope with the oaks and +the naked tree.</p> + +<p>When it rained, Martin was set to read «The +Bee and the Dove» and «The Toad and the +Ox.» He read too «Tiny’s Trip to Dreamtown.»</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«Little gold fishes in goodly row</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Swim through the silver sea there.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tiny is off to Dreamtown, ho!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere it is night he’ll be there.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«Soon, soon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Close to the moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He sees its outline fleeting.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bright, bright</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Many a light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sends him a kindly greeting.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">«On glides the ship, it nears the land.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lamps are a-gleam so pretty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Down at the edge of the murmuring strand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bells ring out from the city.»</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The city! Tears came into Martin’s eyes. He +had often thought of the city in the past days +and had wondered if everything was the same +at home. For in winter Martin longed for the +green grass of summer and the strawberries in +the woods, but when a flock of summer days +had gone by and the green was no longer fresh +and the wild roses in the meadows were gray +with the dust of the highroad, he dreamed +once more of the city’s gleaming rows of +lamps, of Christmas and snow, and of the gray +winter twilight in front of the lighted fire.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-X-"> + —X— + </h3> + + +<p>The wheel of the year had gone around, and +it was again autumn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> + +<p>In the city there was much that was new. Long +Row was gone with its gardens and sheds; in +its place a great brick building rose aloft, +growing higher every day, obscuring both the +lindens of Humlegård Park and the Observatory +on its hill. Everywhere people were pulling +down and building up, and dynamite blasts +resounded every day in the district, which was +now no longer to be called Ladgardsland but +Östermalm. And Mrs. Heggbom had become a +lady. If anybody called her by her former title, +she would answer politely but decidedly, «Not +any more!»</p> + +<p>Martin went to school, but it was a modest +little school and not nearly so terrible as he +had thought. One had only to learn one’s lessons, +and everything went well. And Martin +felt with pride that his knowledge of the world +was enlarged with every day. Space and time +daily extended their boundaries before his +eyes; the world was much bigger than he had +dreamed and so old that his head grew giddy +at the multitude of the years. If one looked +ahead, time had no limits—it ran out into a +dizzying blue infinity; but if one traced it +back, one at least found far back in the darkness +a beginning, a place where one had to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>stop: six thousand years before the birth of +Our Saviour it was that God had created the +world. That stood clear and plain in Martin’s +Biblical History, on the first page.</p> + +<p>In six days He had made it. But the teacher +said that days were longer at that time.</p> + +<p>But if possibly the days of the creation had +been a little longer than ordinary days, it was +just the opposite with Methusalem’s nine +hundred and sixty-nine years. «At that time, +you see, they didn’t reckon the years as long +as now,» the teacher said.</p> + +<p>There was so much new to learn and digest; +school had in reality none of those terrors with +which Martin had arrayed it in his imagination.</p> + +<p>But on the other hand the way to and from +school was filled with all sorts of perils and +adventures. Those ill-disposed beings who +were called rowdies and who called Martin and +his comrades stuck-ups might be in ambush +around any corner. The worst of these rowdies +were the fierce and formidable «marsh rowdies,» +who would now and then leave their +gloomy habitation in the tract between the +Humlegård and Roslagstorg, the «Marsh,» to +go on the war path. Their weapons were said to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>be lead balls on the end of short ropes. But +more than these marsh rowdies, whom Martin +had never seen and of whose existence he was +not entirely sure, he feared the horrible Franz, +who used to live in the Long Row and still +resided in the same street. For this rowdy +directed all his energies and intelligence toward +embittering Martin’s life by day and even +pursued him into his nocturnal dreams.</p> + +<p>But one day when Martin was on his way for +morning recess, he found two of his comrades +in a fight with Franz at a street corner; in fact +they had already overcome him, thrown him +down, and were pummeling him with their +fists. At this time Martin had begun to read +Indian books, so that he at once saw in Franz +a parallel to the noble redskin and did not +want to miss so favorable a chance of making +him his ally against other rowdies. He therefore +advanced and represented to his comrades +how cowardly it was to fight two against one, +said that Franz lived in his street and was a +very decent rowdy, and proposed that they let +him go in peace. While he thus drew the attention +of his comrades, Franz managed to get up +and run away.</p> + +<p>In return Martin got all the licking intended +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>for Franz. Furthermore he had to endure the +scorn of his comrades for being the friend of +a rowdy. And the next time he met Franz on +the street in front of the dyer’s gate, the latter +tripped him so that he fell into the gutter, +then gave him a bloody nose, tore his books +apart, swore at him frightfully, and ran off.</p> + +<p>He had not understood that he was supposed +to be a noble redskin. But this Franz was not +a rowdy of the usual sort; he was a thoroughly +awful rowdy.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-XI-"> + —XI— + </h3> + + +<p>Martin entered the high school.</p> + +<p>Here everything was strange and cold. Gray +walls, long corridors. The school yard was like +the desert of Sahara. When the bell rang for +the first recess, Martin slipped off by himself +so as to escape his new comrades. But the next +recess they gathered around him in a ring, surveying +him for a while in silence, till finally a +little red-haired boy with a broad pate opened +his mouth to ask, «What sort of devil are +you?»</p> + +<p>At these words Martin had a dark premonition +that a new stage of his life was beginning. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>had been as happy as a plant in the earth, as is +every little child with kind parents and a good +home. Now the doors were opened upon an +entirely new world, a world where one could +not get on by the same simple means that his +father and mother had shown him: <i>i.e.</i>, by +being polite and friendly towards all he met +and never taking advantage of others. Here +the thing was to decide quickly and firmly in +what case one should use one’s fists, in what +one should take to one’s heels, and under what +circumstances one could benefit by cunning +and deceit. It was not long, either, before Martin +got the way of things. He suddenly remembered +various curses and ugly words that he +had heard from the bridge-tender’s assistant +in the country, and he missed no opportunity +of fitting them in here and there in conversation +with his associates wherever he thought +they would go. In this way he became sooner +acquainted with the other boys, and they in +return enlightened him in much that a newcomer +might find useful: <i>e.g.</i>, which of the +teachers flogged and which only gave bad +marks; that the worst of all was Director Sundell, +who had mirrors in his spectacles so that +he saw what was done behind his back and always +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>wore galoshes so that he couldn’t be +heard in the corridors; that «Sausages» was +decent, though he marked hard, but that «The +Flea» was a damned sneak.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-XII-"> + —XII— + </h3> + + +<p>So year was added to year, and the new +buried the old, while Martin was slowly initiated +into the twofold art of life, to learn and +to forget. For as the gambler in order to keep +on till the last coin has run through his trembling +fingers must forget his losses in the hope +of future gains, so humanity, the gambler by +compulsion, finds that the greatest art is to +forget and that upon this depends everything.</p> + +<p>Martin forgot. The Red Turk, who had long +since wearied of jumping, was as much forgotten +as if he had never been. And Uncle +Abraham, who had given him to Martin and +who had hanged himself with a stove-cord one +rainy day, when he didn’t find it worth the +trouble to live any more, was soon forgotten +as well, though he now and again came up in +Martin’s dreams as a dark and disturbing +riddle. But while the boy was forgetting, he +learned. A third of the truth was transmitted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>by the teachers, and another third was given +by his comrades, who soon helped him to lift +the veil under which was hidden the Sixth +Commandment and everything pertaining to +it. They made free use of the Scriptures in +their researches. They explained precisely +what it was that Absolom did with his father’s +concubines on the roof of the palace before all +the people, and they reveled with Ezekiel over +the abysmal sin of Ahala and Ahaliba. But +although both of these thirds were given him +with an admixture of errors and lies, and although +the final third—which was perhaps the +most important and which it was his task to +search out for himself sometime—had not +yet begun to occupy him; yet nevertheless +every day widened the chinks experience tore +through the spiderweb tissue of legend and +dream with which friendly hands had fenced +in his childhood, and more and more often +through the cracks gaped the great empty void +which is called the world.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_WHITE_CAP"> + THE WHITE CAP <img alt="Three-leaf glyph" src="images/glyph.png" style="width:1.0em"> + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> + +<div class="chapter"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-I-_1"> + —I— + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>When Martin Birck had got +the white cap, his first errand was to go into a +cigar booth to buy a cane of cinnamon wood +and a package of cigarettes. The young girl +who stood in the shop had black eyes and a +thick bang. Her exterior corresponded but imperfectly +with the ideal of his dreams, which +belonged to a more blonde and Gretchen-like +sphere; but when she congratulated him pleasantly +on his white cap and at the same time +regarded him with a look full of kindliness, despite +the fact that he had never before been in +her shop, he suddenly felt all warm about the +heart, caught her dirty hand, which lay outstretched +across the counter display of Cameo +and Duke of Durham, and tenderly kissed it. +However, he repented almost at once. He had +no doubt behaved badly. He did not, to be +sure, imagine that the young girl was completely +innocent—she had no doubt a lover, +possibly several; but that was no reason why +any one at all had the right to come in from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>the street and kiss her hand just like that. He +was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say +or do, till he finally plucked up courage to +select a cane, light a cigarette, and go out.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-074.jpg" alt="Village street"> +</figure> + +<p>Queen Street was still wet after the last shower, +little ladies with jogging bustles lifted their +skirts to jump over puddles, which mirrored +the blue above; stylish gentlemen with thin +angular legs and canes like Martin’s swung +their top-hats in pompous salutation, revealing +in the act heads so close-clipped that the scalp +shone through. Over the roofs and chimneys +of the gray houses the restless white spring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>clouds hurried in fluttering haste, and far +down at the bottom of the street the sunlight +quivered between churches and towers.</p> + +<p>Martin stopped in front of every store window +to see the reflection of his white cap. He could +not understand how he had become a student. +Up to the last he had believed he would be +flunked. His surprise was the more joyous +when he received his student certificate the +same as the others, and especially when he +came to the closing lines, «In consideration +whereof the aforesaid M. Birck has been adjudged +worthy to receive the certificate: +<i>Graduated with honor</i>.» These words caused +his heart to swell with deep gratitude toward +his corps of teachers, for although he considered +himself fairly proficient, it was far beyond +his expectations to find this idea shared +by his instructors. During the last terms he +had seldom known his lessons. Often he had +not even been able to bring himself to read +them over in the ten-minute intermission before +classes or to slip a couple of loose leaves +from his textbook into his Bible so as to study +them during morning prayers, while the lector +in theology stood on the platform and talked +bosh—a resource which ordinarily even the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>most frivolous of his comrades would not fail +to use. He would, however, have liked to +gratify his parents with good marks, although +for his own part he had not any great ambition +in that direction; but during the last years +there had come over him a dull apathy for +everything connected with school, against +which he could do nothing. It was so hard for +him to take it in full earnest. Whenever, contrary +to his custom, he had distinguished himself +in this or that subject, he was almost +ashamed within himself, as if he had done +something stupid. As often as he was supposed +to dig down into the paltry details in which +textbooks delight, he felt himself as ridiculous +as the man who, when his house was on fire, +saved the poker.</p> + +<p>Now that the poker was saved, however, he +was so overjoyed that he could have sung; he +felt that he was happy and free, as he hastened +home with his white cap, home to the blossoming +street of his childhood. But the street was +no longer the same as before. From a single +plot the cherry tree still stretched its branches +out over a mossy board fence; everything else +was great red brick buildings and small commonplace +meeting-houses. The rowdy Franz +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>could no longer disturb what idyllic atmosphere +was still left, for he had grown up and +become big, and had now been for some time +behind the bars of Langholm jail.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-II-_1"> + —II— + </h3> + + +<p>Home was quieter and more empty than before. +Maria, Martin’s sister, had been married +a year ago to a doctor who lived far away in +the country, and grandmother was no longer +there.</p> + +<p>In the evening Martin and his companions +were to have a supper at Hasselbacken. Martin’s +father gave him five crowns to offer to +the joy of youth, and his mother took him +aside and said: «Martin, Martin, you must +promise me to be careful tonight and not be +led into any foolishness. Don’t make a point +of emptying your glass every time any one +drinks a toast with you, or you’ll lose your +head. The best thing would be just to pretend +you drank. And I must tell you, Martin, that +there is a class of dreadful women who do +nothing else but try to lead young men to their +destruction. You must beware of them especially. +Dear Martin, if I only knew you had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>given yourself to the Lord and had your +thoughts fixed on Him, I shouldn’t be anxious +about you; but I know you don’t do that. Their +very breath is poisonous; if you only stand on +the street and talk to such a woman, you may +catch the most frightful diseases that no doctor +in the world can cure.»</p> + +<p>«Mother dear,» said Martin, «you’re always +getting off on that.»</p> + +<p>He took up his white cap, said good-by and +went.</p> + +<p>His mother followed him with troubled eyes, +and when he was gone, sat down in a dark +corner and wept. For she knew she was going +to lose him as mothers always lose their sons.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-III-_1"> + —III— + </h3> + + +<p>Martin thought of his mother as he went +along the Avenue on the way to the Park. How +could the relations between them have become +what they were? To her he was still a little +child. When he first began to speak to her of +his religious doubts, she pretended to believe +that it was something he had got from outside, +from bad comrades or some wicked book. +Later things reached such a point that he could +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>no longer talk to her about anything but the +most ordinary subjects—about shirts and +socks and buttons to be sewed on. If their conversation +ever took a serious turn, they treated +each other mutually as little children. Thus, +without his meaning it or noticing it before it +was too late, he got a condescending tone that +hurt her, so that after such a conversation a +thorn remained in the heart of each.</p> + +<p>She often lay awake at night weeping and sorrowing +over his unbelief. She herself, however, +was of the earth in her thoughts, her +hopes, and the whole of her being. She believed +in hell of course, because she believed +in the Bible; but she could never seriously +imagine that her son or any one at all whom +she knew and associated with would go to such +a horrible place. It was not therefore on account +of his soul that she grieved most but for +his future here on earth, since she had observed +that things did not ordinarily go well +in the world with those who contemned God +and religion. Some of them got into prison, +others left their country to go among strangers, +and all aroused distrust and ill-will among +respectable folk. She feared that her son might +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>come to be one of these, and it was this idea +which kept her awake at night and left her +with swollen eyes. She had no more precious +dream than that he should be «like other +folk,» as most people are, if possible better +and above all happier, but still on the whole +as they were. She could imagine that her son +might become a poet, she could even wish it, +for she loved poetry; the tears came into her +eyes when he read her some of his poems; but +she pictured it that he would sit at some office +work on weekdays, and only on Sundays or +in his free hours write some verses about sunsets, +which he would send in to the Swedish +Academy and get a prize, so that he would become +at the same time a great poet and a +respected business man with an assured income. +She believed in full seriousness that he +would be more highly thought of among poets +if he was in an office and had a title than if he +just wrote. That was how it had been with all +the real poets. Tegnér was a bishop, and even +Bellman had at least had a position in the lottery +bureau. As an example that Martin should +especially take to follow, she used to mention +a poet whom she had known when she was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>young, who was now an auditor in the Court +of Exchequer and wrote verses about everything +that was grand and beautiful, about the +sea and the sun and the king, and had been +decorated with the Order of Vasa. Such a life +she considered noble and to be emulated, and +when her dreams of her son’s future were at +their highest, it was something of this sort +she imagined.</p> + +<p>But Martin dreamed other dreams. He wanted +to be a poet. He would write a book; a novel +or a lyric sequence, or best of all a drama of +ideas in the same verse form as «Brand» or +«Peer Gynt.» He would devote his life to +searching for the truth and giving to mankind +what he found or thought he had found of it. +He would also become famous, a great man; +he would earn a lot of money, he would buy a +little house for his father and a new silk dress +for his mother—her old one was worn and +faded. He would be envied by men and sought +after by women, but of all the women in the +world he should not love more than one, and +that one a woman who loved another man. +This unhappy love should give his thoughts +depth and bitterness and his poems wings. But +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>he had a dark feeling that while he sought for +truth he should only find truths, and that +while he gave them to men in verse more wonderful +than any music or in a clear and cold +prose with words like sharp teeth, he would +despise himself for reaping honor and gold for +the morsels he had found by accident while he +was seeking for something else. This self-contempt +would eat into his soul and make of +him an empty husk. But he would not let the +world note anything; he would paint his +cheeks, pencil his eyebrows and hold up his +head, and at the very moment when he himself +most deeply despised his poetry and set it +below the humblest manual labor, he would +inspire men most and be elected to the Swedish +Academy to succeed Wirsén. With a countenance +immobile as a mask he would give the +usual flowery oration on his predecessor. Never +again after that would he set pen to paper. In +a strangely colorful and disordered life he +would seek to deaden his despair. No sin +should be unknown to him; in broad daylight +he would drive in an open carriage +through the streets with harlots and buffoons, +and he would pass the nights in drinking and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>play. Till one gloomy October night he wearied +of his mad and empty life, made a fire in his +stove and burned his papers, emptied a glass +of dark red wine spiced with a strange herb, +and went to sleep to awake no more....</p> + +<p>Or perhaps it was unnecessary that his life +should end so tragically. When he thought it +over more carefully, this seemed to him even +a trifle banal. He might just as well move to a +small town, to Strengness or Grenna. There he +could live alone with a parrot and a black cat. +He might also have an aquarium with goldfish. +Behind closed shutters he would dream away +the day, but when night came he would light +candles in all the rooms and pace back and +forth, back and forth, meditating on the vanity +of life. And when the townfolk passed his +house on the way home from their evening +toddy at the rathskeller, they would stop to +point at his window and say: «There lives +Martin Birck. He has taught like a sage and +lived like a fool, and he is very unhappy.»</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All this and a lot more Martin Birck thought +as he went out the Avenue across the park on +the way to Hasselbacken.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-IV-_1"> + —IV— + </h3> + + +<p>The orchestra struck up the opening bars +of «Mefistofele.»</p> + +<p>Martin was sitting out by the balcony railing +with Henrik Rissler. They listened to the +music, looked out across the terraces, and said +little. Henrik Rissler had a smooth white forehead +and calm limpid eyes. His glance was +long and questing; it seemed to slip over the +objects nearest it in order more quickly to +reach those farther off. He was the only one of +Martin’s comrades who had sought his company +outside of school. They used to go to +each other’s homes in the afternoon to talk +and smoke cigarettes, and once in a while they +had gone on long walks together, often in rain, +snow, or wind, out to the park or through the +suburbs, talking the while of everything that +concerns young men, of girls and God and the +immortality of the soul. Or they would go into +the gas-lighted streets with the sensation of +throwing themselves into the turmoil of the +world, would stand in front of etchings in +book-shop windows, where they admired beyond +everything a lithograph entitled «Don +Juan in Hades» with a motto from Baudelaire:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The hero all the while, half leaning on his sword,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gazed at the vessel’s wake and deigned not to look up.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>This picture excited their imagination, their +hearts beat more quickly when in the current +of humanity they brushed elbows with a pretty +girl, and they believed they were living +through an entire adventure every time an old +painted professional threw them an ardent +glance.</p> + +<p>But the original cause of their friendship was +that they had both read Jacobsen’s novel, <i>Niels +Lyhne</i>, and loved it more than other books.</p> + +<p>Inside the house the others were talking and +laughing around the punch-bowls, forming +themselves into groups and coteries. Most of +them grouped themselves after their old custom +according to social and intellectual similarities +and differences, which even on the +school benches had united some and separated +them from others; Gabel and Billfelt, Jansson +and Moberg, Planius and Tullman. Others +went about somewhat morosely and talked +about all keeping together.</p> + +<p>Josef Marin rapped on a bowl and called for +a toast «to the ontological proof.» It was drunk +with rather half-hearted acclaim. Everyone +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>was so tired of school matters that it didn’t +seem worth the trouble even to make fun of +them.</p> + +<p>Josef Marin was to be a clergyman, but he +was still not quite settled in his faith.</p> + +<p>The music played student songs, «Stand +Strong!» and «Here’s to Happy Student +Days!» Dusk began to fall over the tops of the +trees, over the roofs and chimneys of the city +and the heights of the southern mountains, the +pallid dusk of spring twilight, which rarefies +and uplifts all things, making them hover with +the unreality of a dream world. The crowd, +who were clinking glasses and drinking down +on the terrace and who a little while ago could +still be clearly divided into their component +parts as lieutenants and students, guardsmen +and girls, and townsfolk with their wives and +children, had now melted together in the dusk +into an indefinite mass. As though by an inexplicable +caprice the murmur suddenly became +silent, so that for the moment one could +hear the plash of the water in the fountain and +the last sleepy bird-notes from the trees. And +in the west already flamed a solitary and +mighty star.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> + +<p>«Look at Venus,» said Henrik; «how she glitters!»</p> + +<p>Martin sat contemplatively drawing on the +table, and the strokes under his hand formed +themselves into a woman’s arms and breast.</p> + +<p>«Tell me,» he asked suddenly—he felt that +he was blushing—«tell me, do you think it’s +possible for a man to live chaste till real happiness +in love comes to him? That’s surely what +one would wish. To be with women whom one +has no feeling for, who belong to another class, +who have dirty linen and use ugly words and +only think about being paid—that must be +loathsome.»</p> + +<p>Henrik Rissler too became a little red.</p> + +<p>«It’s possible,» he said; «yes, for some it’s +always possible. People are so different. But +I know this much of myself, that it will hardly +be possible for me. Then at least the great love +mustn’t keep me waiting much longer.»</p> + +<p>They sat silent and gazed at the star, which +glittered ever more brightly in the darkening +blue.</p> + +<p>«Venus,» Martin murmured, «Venus. She’s +a great and beautiful star. But I don’t see why +she should have a name. Anyhow, she doesn’t +come when she’s invoked.»</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> + +<p>Martin suddenly heard a strange voice behind +his chair.</p> + +<p>«Very true,» said the voice, «very true. She +doesn’t come when she’s invoked. An equally +mournful and accurate observation!»</p> + +<p>Martin turned in surprise. The stranger was +a man carelessly dressed, with a student cap, +a pale narrow face and black mustaches which +hung down over his mouth so that it wasn’t +easy to see whether he smiled or was serious. +His face looked oldish for the white cap, and +it was not entirely clean.</p> + +<p>One of Martin’s companions stood beside him +and made the introduction, «Doctor Markel.»</p> + +<p>Doctor Markel had come there with an older +brother of Billfelt’s. They had come from Upsala +that day, eaten dinner at Hasselbacken, +and then invited themselves to share the student +supper. The elder Billfelt was giving a +talk inside at the moment. Martin heard something +about «Upsala» and «alma mater.»</p> + +<p>Doctor Markel sat down beside Henrik and +Martin without further ceremony.</p> + +<p>«Two young poets, eh?» he asked. «I venture +to assume so, since the gentlemen sit here by +themselves apart from the vulgar throng and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>talk about the stars. May I ask what your attitude +toward life is? Do you believe in God?»</p> + +<p>Henrik Rissler looked at the stranger in surprise, +and Martin shook his head.</p> + +<p>Doctor Markel looked entirely serious, except +that there was a slight mist over his eyes, which +were large and mournful.</p> + +<p>Some of the others had come up and were now +listening to the conversation. Planius and +Tullman presented the same docile countenances +with which they had listened in class to +the exposition of the instructor. Gabel simpered +sarcastically with his fine aristocratic +face, and behind him Josef Marin pressed up. +Josef Marin was short and slight; he looked +pale and overworked. The two or three glasses +of punch he had drunk had already made him +a bit convivial; but now when he heard a +serious question proposed and could not see +that there was any joke behind it, he broke +in with all the earnestness he could summon +up at the moment: «I believe in God. But I +don’t conceive Him as a personal being.»</p> + +<p>Doctor Markel seemed pleasantly surprised.</p> + +<p>«Oh, you are a pantheist, charming! That’s +what you must be too»—he turned to Martin—«you +who are studying to be a poet. For +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>poets and those who want to seduce girls—and +that all poets wish—I cannot sufficiently +recommend the pantheistic conception. Nothing +can be more suited for turning the head +of a young girl than the pantheistic rhapsodizing +with which Faust answers Gretchen’s +simple question, ‹Do you believe in God?› If +he had answered as simply and unaffectedly +as she asked, ‹No, my child, I don’t believe +in God,› you may be sure the girl would have +crossed herself, run home to her quiet chamber, +and turned the key twice in the lock. +Instead he answers that he both believes and +disbelieves—which gives the impression of +deep spiritual conflict—and that God is really +a name for the feeling that two lovers have +when they lie in the same bed. This he says with +much feeling and in beautiful language, so +that it does not shock her modesty; on the +contrary, she thinks he talks like a priest, and +the rest we know—— And for a poet—— But +first allow me as an elder student....»</p> + +<p>With easy familiarity Doctor Markel drank +brotherhood with all who were within range +and then continued:</p> + +<p>«For a poet, pantheism is a pure godsend, a +regular gold-mine. If he is a churchman, he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>will be given the Order of Charles XIII and a +good income, but will only be read by missies +and be ridiculed by the liberal papers, which +have the largest circulation. If he is an atheist, +he will be considered a shallow and superficial +fellow, a poor sort, and he will have a hard +time to borrow money. No, a poet should believe +in God, but in a god who is out of the +ordinary run, something not yet existent, +never before shown in any circus, that one +can never really get hold of, for then the game +would be up. The pantheistic god is exactly +the raw material needed for such a being. +That is the ideal for a god. Each and every one +can carve him to his own taste, he is never +without humor, he never punishes and of +course never rewards either, he takes the whole +show easily, which comes from the fact that +he lacks a small characteristic that even the +simplest of the town rowdies possesses to some +extent: namely, personality. That’s just +the choice thing about him. To a personal god +one must stand in a personal relation; that is, +one must become a religionist. To be a religionist +is excellent if one has just come out of +Langholm jail and needs to be rehabilitated in +society. Otherwise it is unnecessary. You see +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>my drift, gentlemen: to stick to a personal god +entails a lot of unnecessary trouble, to be without +a god entirely is ticklish. Therefore one +must have an impersonal god. Such a god sets +the imagination going and comes out finely in +poetry without in return entailing any obligation. +With such a god one will be regarded by +cultured circles as a person of noble and enlightened +thought and may become pretty +nearly anything from an archbishop to the +editor of a radical newspaper.</p> + +<p>«In formal style this god may be called the +Allfather, in common speech the Lord. As a +matter of fact he doesn’t need any name, it is +with him as with that star off there: no matter +how one calls him, he won’t come.»</p> + +<p>The gesture with which Doctor Markel sought +and, as it were, beckoned to the star met only +a dark and sullen firmament, for great clouds +had gathered, the star was gone, it had grown +dusky as an autumn evening, and some big +raindrops now began to fall on the railing.</p> + +<p>Doctor Markel’s lecture was not well received. +Josef Marin, who had been drinking more +punch meanwhile and had become even paler +than before, muttered something to the effect +that he ought to have a smack on the jaw. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>The others got up in groups and discussed +whether they should go home.</p> + +<p>The elder Billfelt took in the situation, rang +for the waiter and ordered champagne. He +raised his glass and returned thanks in well-rounded +periods for the cordiality with which +he and his friend, Doctor Markel, representatives +of Upsala and alma mater, had been received +by the future alumni. He then paid for +the champagne and went off with Markel.</p> + +<p>«Your brother is a gentleman,» said Gabel to +Billfelt.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It rained as if the heavens were opened. They +crowded into a street car to go into the city and +have coffee. Most of them voted to go to the +Hamburg Bourse.</p> + +<p>Martin, who had always believed the Hamburg +Bourse was a place where the German merchants +of Stockholm assembled to do business, +found himself to his surprise entering a café +that seemed to irradiate a fabulous magnificence. +Here and there on the couches sat some +of his former teachers and a lot of oldsters +who lifted their glasses and nodded genially.</p> + +<p>Coffee and liqueurs were brought in. There +was talk of future plans. Most of them were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>to study law and expected to spend the summer +in reading up. Enthusiasm rose, and rash +promises were made to keep in touch and not +forget each other. At one end of the table +Gabel and Billfelt swore eternal friendship; +at the other Jansson expatiated on his feeling +for Moberg. It was only with difficulty that +Josef Marin could be restrained from prophesying. +When Josef Marin prophesied he would +read out long rigmaroles of stuff, marriage announcements +from the <i>Daily News</i> mixed with +bits from Tegnér’s <i>Svea</i> and Norbeck’s <i>Theology</i>, +all recited in the solemn monotone with +which he imagined Elisha had chastised Ahab, +and Ezekiel foretold the destruction of Israel +and Judah. It was one o’clock, getting on towards +two, and various members of the party +had already said good night and gone off, +especially those who seriously meant to read +up for law. The crowd was thinning, the electric +light had long ago been turned off, only a +couple of gas jets were still burning, and the +waiters stood with the air of martyrs as they +yearned for sleep and <i>pourboire</i>. There was +nothing to do but break up.</p> + +<p>Outside, the glimmer of dawn had already begun +to spread over the streets and squares. It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>was no longer raining, but the air felt moist +and cold and misty, and through the mist the +clock-face of Jacobs church shone like a moon +in a comic paper.</p> + +<p>It was hard to separate, and the company +walked some distance down along the car +tracks past the opera house. Out of Lagerlunden +came a group of poets and journalists, +and Martin looked at them reverently, wondering +whether it would ever be vouchsafed +him to become one of them. The student caps +gleamed white in the night, whereupon moths +came fluttering from right and left, slipping +their arms under those of the young men and +tempting them with promises of the greatest +happiness in life, until amid convivial mirth +and harmless joking they arrived at Charles +XII’s Square, for Josef Marin had the fixed +idea that he must prophesy before Charles XII. +But while he was prophesying, Gabel caught +the prettiest girl around the waist and began +to waltz with her around the statue, Moberg +followed and trod a measure with an elderly +bacchante, and Martin stood with a pounding +heart staring at a pale little piece of mischief +with eyes as black as charcoal and wondered if +he dared go up to her. But while he was wondering, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>Planius put an arm around her waist +and scampered off, and Martin stood alone and +watched them whirl about in the mist, pair +after pair. But the morning breeze from the +south now began to clear the mist, driving it +across the river like white smoke, and the cross +on St. Katarina’s cupola burned like the morning +star in the first rays of the dawn.</p> + +<p>A policeman loomed up from down by the +docks and gradually came nearer, one of the +girls set up a cry of warning, and the crowd +dispersed in all directions. A stout nymph took +Martin by the arm and went along with him.</p> + +<p>«I must hold your arm, ducky,» she said, «or +the cop will pull me in. Besides, you might +like to come home with me, eh? I’ve a right +nice place, you’ll see. I have a big lovely bed +and sheets I embroidered myself. I sit and embroider +mornings mostly. One must have some +fun for oneself, and I can’t stand playing cards +with mamma day out and day in like the other +girls, and they swear and carry on and act +vulgar. I don’t care about that sort of thing; +I like nice agreeable boys like you. If you’re +real nice and come to me and come often, +I’ll embroider you a nightshirt for a keepsake——Oh, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>you haven’t any money! The +hell, you say; that’s another pair of galoshes! +Then you must come again when you have +some. Just ask for Hulda. But tell me, is it true +there’s a girl at Upsala that’s called Charles +XII?»</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-097.jpg" alt="Two people by streetlight"> +</figure> + +<p>«Not that I know,» answered Martin.</p> + +<p>«Well, good-by then»....</p> + +<p>It was not quite true that Martin had no +money; he still had a few crowns left from the +honorarium for a poem published in the <i>Home +Friend</i> and had only made the excuse so as not +to hurt Hulda’s feelings.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-V-_1"> + —V— + </h3> + + +<p>Martin lay awake a long time, unable to +sleep. It was the little pale girl with the black +eyes that left him no rest. She had stood there +so pale and still and lonely; she had not taken +any one’s arm or laughed or chattered like the +others. She had surely been seduced and deserted; +she perhaps had a little child that +would freeze or starve to death if she didn’t +get it food and clothes by selling her body. +How he would kiss her if he had her in his +arms now, how he would caress her and give +her the tenderest names, so as to make her forget +who she was, a common street-walker, and +who he was, a chance customer like all the +rest! With whom was she now? With Planius, +maybe. What could Planius be to her? He was +no better looking than Martin and he was as +stupid as a codfish. He had been one of the +worst grinds and had only had a plain «graduated» +on his certificate. Why should she pick +out just him? But she, to be sure, had made +no choice; she had just taken the first that +came along. Martin understood this and found +it quite natural. She had given away her heart +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>and soul and had no longer anything to give +but her body, so why should she deny that to +any one when it was her profession to sell it +and when she had already got as deep in the +mire as a human being can get? Yet still, if +Martin could meet her and she could get to +know him, perhaps she might become fond +of him and begin a new life. For her he would +give up everything—all his dreams of poetic +fame and his future; he would choose some +profession in which he could immediately earn +her and his upkeep; they would be married +and live far away from men in a little house +by a lake deep in the woods. They would row +among the rushes in a little boat and dream +away the hours, they would land on an island +and be together there all night, while the stars +burned above their heads. He would kiss away +all sorrow, all dark memories from her brow, +and would be as fond of her little child as if +it was his own....</p> + +<p>But while Martin let his fancy wander thus, +he knew quite clearly at the same time that +under all these reveries lay nothing but desire—a +young man’s hunger for a woman’s +white body. And the further on into the night +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>this lasted, while he lay awake and stared at +the gray dawn light trickling in through the +blinds, the more bitterly he regretted that he +had said no to the other girl, the fat one.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-VI-_1"> + —VI— + </h3> + + +<p>When one asks a young man who has just +passed his school examinations, «What do you +intend to be?» he cannot answer, «A poet.» +People would turn away their heads and put +their hands over their mouths. He may answer, +a lawyer or a painter or a musician, for +a man can train himself for all these fields at +some public institution, and even in one’s apprenticeship +one has a modest place in the +community, a profession to follow, one already +<i>is</i> something; a student at the university, or a +pupil in the art school or the conservatory. +It is not much, but still it is always a sop to +throw to indiscreet questioners, and a conceivable +future to point to in the case of these +more kindly disposed. But he who is to become +a poet is nothing but a mockery before God +and man until he is recognized and famous. +He must therefore during all his long prentice +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>years hang a false sign over his door and +pretend to be busy at something that people +consider respectable.</p> + +<p>This Martin realized, he found it perfectly natural +and not to be altered, and so when his +father asked him what he was to be, he answered +not that he meant to become a poet but +that he should like to work as an extra in a +government office. His father was pleased with +this answer, perceiving in it a sign that his son +would be as sensible and happy as himself. He +had feared that Martin might want to go to +Upsala and study æsthetics and he felt within +himself that he could not have refused, but he +trembled at all the outlay and trouble there +would be for a poor father of a family to keep +a son at the university. He was therefore delighted +with the reply and had nothing to remark +except that Martin ought to try to enter +not one office but as many as possible. That +evening he invited his son to go to Blanch’s +café to hear the music and drink toddy.</p> + +<p>But the very next day he put the affair in motion, +speaking with his acquaintances in various +departments and helping Martin to write +applications.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-VII-_1"> + —VII— + </h3> + + +<p>Martin had to attend upon the chief of the +bureau to which he most desired to submit his +services at eight o’clock in the morning in a +frock coat and white necktie. Cold and hungry, +for he had not had time to eat, he went up the +steps of a quiet house in a fashionable street +and rang at the door of the general director. +An attendant in gold braid announced him and +opened the door of a dark private room with +curtains only half up. Various articles of dress +lay scattered about here and there on the +chairs, a great green laticlave hung on the +mirror, and at the threshold stood a chamber-pot, +which he nearly tripped over but checked +himself in time and stood there making an +awkward bow. In the middle of the room stood +a venerable old man in a purple-red satin +dressing-gown, gesticulating with a razor, his +chin covered with lather. Then out of the red +satin and the white lather proceeded a voice, +which said: «You have a fine student certificate, +young gentleman, but don’t forget that +honesty and diligence are and will continue to +be the highest requisites in government service. +You are accepted and may report tomorrow +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>to begin your duties, if there is anything +to do. Above everything, be honest! Good-by.»</p> + +<p>Martin assumed that this discourteous injunction +was in accord with ancient custom and refused +to be daunted. He went to the office of +the department, where he was given a place +at a table and a thick ledger to inspect. He +added up column after column. If the figures +came out right, his duty was to put ticks in the +margin; if they did not, he was to make notes +of the fact. But they always did come out right. +Martin gradually came to the conviction that +there were never any mistakes in these accounts, +and when this conviction became +rooted in him, he gave up adding entirely and +merely put in ticks. Sometimes he looked up +from his real or pretended work and listened +to the buzzing of the flies or the rain plashing +on the windowpanes, or to the conversation +and grumbling of the older men, or to a blind +man playing a flute in the yard.</p> + +<p>And he said to himself, «So this is life.»</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-VIII-_1"> + —VIII— + </h3> + + +<p>But for Martin this was not life. For him +it was a retreat, an asylum in which he had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>sought repose for a time, which he hoped to +make short.</p> + +<p>He read and thought. In books and in his own +thoughts he searched for what one so often +seeks in youth in order to forget in age that +one has ever bothered about it: a faith to live +by, a star to steer by, a concord in things, a +meaning, and a goal.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Martin had been a Christian up to his sixteenth +year. It is natural for a child to believe what +his elders say is true. He had believed everything +and had not doubted, and on Sundays +he had gone to church with his parents. If the +preacher was a good talker and a charlatan, +he felt edified and moved and wished he could +become such a preacher; but if it was an +honest unassuming minister who preached as +well as he could without making any fuss or +gesticulations, he generally went to sleep.</p> + +<p>But when he was sixteen he was confirmed. Up +to then religion had been a detail of school +work set side by side with other details; now +it became all of a sudden the one essential, +that which daily demanded his time and consideration. +The question could not be appeased +by the thought: «This is just a matter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>of the emotions,» since it was customary to +weep when one «went forward.» It freely developed +the claim to be the highest of all, the +dominant force in life, the one thing that mattered. +And Martin could not escape the discovery +that if religion was the truth, then it +was right in this claim, the claim to be above +everything else, and he must devote all his +powers and his whole soul to it; he must become +religious. But if it was not the truth, +then he must seek the truth wherever he could +find it; he must become a free-thinker. The +course between, the Christianity of use and +custom such as is professed and believed in by +the multitude, was to him mere thoughtlessness +and conventionality. This was an evasion +which seemed natural to him in most of his +comrades, but it never occurred to him to +think that this was open to him. He stood at +the parting of the ways and had to choose.</p> + +<p>But one night when he lay awake pondering +over this, unable to sleep, while the moon +shone straight into his room and the thoughts +crowded into his head, suddenly it stood clear +to him that he did not believe. It seemed to +him that he had long realized the Christian +religion was something that no one could +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>really believe if he wished to be honest with +himself. It became evident to him that the +problem as to the truth of Christianity was +something which he had already gone past +and that it was actually a quite different problem +which now disturbed him: how was it +possible that the others could believe in this +when he could not? By «the others» he meant +not only his comrades—for they did not seem +to concern themselves any further in such matters, +and he knew besides that one could get +them to believe in a little of everything—but +his parents, his teachers, all the grown-ups, +who must know more of life and the world +than he did. How was it possible that he, Martin +Birck, who wasn’t sixteen yet and lay in +a little iron bed in the home of his parents, +could think differently about the highest and +most important things than did old and experienced +people, and how could he be right +and they wrong? This seemed to him almost +as wildly absurd as the faith he had just rejected. +Here he was completely at a loss; he +couldn’t come to any solution. He got up out +of bed and went to the window. Snow was glittering +white on the roofs, it was dark in the +houses, and the street lay empty. The moon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>stood high in the heavens, but it was a gray-white +winter moon, small and frost-bitten and +infinitely far away, and in the moon-haze the +stars twinkled sleepily and dully. Martin stood +tracing with his finger on the pane. «Give me +a sign, God!» he whispered. Then he stood +long at the window, getting chilly and staring +at the moon; he saw it glide in and become +hidden behind a black factory chimney and he +saw it creep out again on the other side. But +he received no sign.</p> + +<p>In the depths of his heart he did not wish for +a sign either, for he felt that a conviction was +something that one could not and should not +have as a gift by means of a miracle. To seek +for truth and be honest with oneself in the +search, that was the one clue he could find.</p> + +<p>Martin supposed that confirmation and the +first communion were duties prescribed by +law which he could not evade. His father had +no different conception, or if he had he did +not say so, for he reverenced the proverb: +Speech is silver, silence is golden. Martin +therefore went to communion with the other +neophytes. It was a spring day with sun and +tender green in the old trees of the churchyard, +and when Martin heard the bells roar +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>and sing and the organ begin the processional +hymn, his eyes filled with tears and he grieved +in his heart that he was not as the others and +could not believe and feel as they did. And +when he saw the church full of serious folk +and heard the voice of the preacher enjoining +the young people from the pulpit to hold fast +to the faith of their fathers, he felt unrest and +confusion through his inmost soul, and again +the question came to trouble him: «How is it +possible that all these can believe, and not I? +It’s mad to think that I alone can be right +against all these and against all the dead who +sleep in their graves out there, who lived and +died in the faith I reject. It’s mad, it’s mad! I +must conquer my reason and teach myself to +believe.» But when he came to the actual ceremonies +and saw the ministers in their surplices +going back and forth before the altar, +while they dispensed the bread and wine and +carried napkins over their arms like waiters, +he felt faint and disgusted and could not understand +that he had let himself be fooled +into such mummery. And although he knew +or believed that these ministers who shuffled +about there in the gloom were in everyday life +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>about as honest as most people, they seemed to +him at that moment shameless hypocrites.</p> + +<p>Belief in a God and in a life after this was what +Martin had left at this time of his childhood +faith. But his god was no longer a fatherly god +who listened to prayers and nodded approval +if they were needful and intelligent, or shook +his head if they were childish and stupid. His +god had become cold as ice and remote as the +moon he had stood staring at on the winter’s +night, and Martin ceased saying his evening +prayer, for he did not believe there was anyone +who heard it. Then finally came the day +when Martin realized that what he had been +calling god these last days was something with +which no human being could come into any +relation either of love or obedience or opposition, +something which could only have the +name of god by a wanton play of words and +a misuse of the incompleteness of language.</p> + +<p>And when he examined his belief in immortality, +he soon found that he had got far away +from the blue heaven of his childhood. He +had observed that all who on any ground other +than that of revelation preserved their belief +in a life after this also assumed a life before +this, and he found such an assumption both +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>natural and logical. Only that is eternal which +has always existed. What has come into being +will sometime cease to be: such was the law +for everything existent. But Martin had no +memory of any earlier existence, nor had he +either read or heard tell of any one who had +with any gleam of probability given it out that +he remembered any such state. There were, to +be sure, people who asserted that they recalled +their preëxistence, but they regularly maintained +that they had been some historic personage +of whom they had read in books during +their present life: <i>e.g.</i>, Julius Caesar or Gregory +VII. Only rarely could any one remember +having been a slave or a waiter or a shop-clerk. +This circumstance appeared peculiar. In any +event it was clear that the great majority +of people, and Martin among them, had not +the slightest recollection of any previous existence. +He concluded from this that neither in +a future life would he be able to remember +anything of the present, that indeed he would +not be able to verify his own identity; and he +found that if one called such an existence immortality, +it was again—as in the question of +God—a weakness of thought, a play with the +imperfection of language, and nothing else. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>And it struck him as even more bizarre to give +such a name to the passage of the dead body +into living nature, into plants and animals and +air and water. He had no mind for such kinds +of word-play.</p> + +<p>Things went on in this way so that Martin set +out in life without any other belief than that +he would grow up, get old and die like a tree +in the ground, as his forefathers had done, and +that the green earth which he saw with his eyes +was his only home in the world and the only +space in which it was given him to live and act. +And among the many dreams he composed +about his life was that in which he was to become +like a great and beautiful tree by the +wayside with rich foliage, giving coolness and +shelter to many. He wished to create happiness +and beauty around him and to clear away illusions; +he meant to speak and write so that all +would have to perceive at once that he was +right. To be sure he was not quite certain that +truth in itself could produce happiness, but +history had taught him that illusion created +unhappiness and crime. Like pestilences the +various religions had passed over the world, +and he was astounded when he thought of all +the desolation with which Christianity had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>marked its way through times and peoples. But +he believed in full confidence that its days +were reckoned, that he lived at the dawn of a +new time, and he wanted to play his part in +thought and poetry toward breaking the road +for what was to come.</p> + +<p>At the time when Martin believed and thought +thus it still occurred to him that life, no matter +how short and unstable it was, had nevertheless +a sort of meaning. He felt himself to +be in a state of development and growth; +every day new truths arose before his mind +and new beauty before his senses during his +long lonely wanderings to the edge of the city +or in the woods when spring had begun. And +spring.... At that time spring was still a +real spring—not a disease, an intoxication, a +fever in the blood, in which all old half-forgotten +yearning and regret rises to the surface and +says: «Look, here I am! Do you recognize me? +I have slept long but I am not dead.» Nothing +of that sort, but an awakening, a morning, a +murmur in the air, and a resounding song. +And at that time the thousand unsatisfied desires +which he bore within him were like so +many shimmering hopes and half-uttered +promises, for no long years of emptiness and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>disappointment had yet managed to sharpen +them into cutting knives which wounded and +tore at the soul. And if he did not believe that +all these obligations, or even most of them, +would be redeemed by life, they were still +like bribing possibilities, like a lever for +dreams without goal or bounds; and even at +the moment when the book he held in his +hand or the experience he had had in the +course of the day whispered warnings in his +ear and advised him not to believe in happiness, +these dreams were woven into a longing +without bitterness and a melancholy as luminous +as a spring twilight.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless these warnings came ever more +closely together, and ever more often it happened +that in the midst of the dreams youthful +blood conjured up he caught himself listening +to the other voice, the voice that welled up +from the depths of the oldest times and was +echoed in the newest books of the day, the +strange voice that none of the hundred new +gospels which periodically as equinoctial +storms had blown through the minds of men +could silence for more than a brief moment, +the voice which said: «All is vanity, and there +is nothing new under the sun.» Why was he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>alive, and what was the meaning of it all? He +did not cease to ask himself these questions, +for he still continuously demanded of the life +which he saw with his eyes that there should +be something behind it, something which +could be called life’s meaning. For most of +the happiness which he saw men possess and +that which he saw them strive for seemed to +him like the fairy gold in the story, to be withered +leaves, or it appeared to him like nice +playthings, something not to be taken seriously. +If he turned his gaze to his own life as +he lived it from day to day, he could not +escape the thought that in itself it was miserable +and empty and that its only worth lay +in the uncertain hope that it would not remain +as it was. But what he hoped for was not something +that one could approach step by step with +work and patience and a hundred small sacrifices—competence +and respect and that sort of +thing—what he hoped for was something indefinite +and indescribable: a sunrise, a break-up +of the ice, an awakening from a painful and +purposeless dream.</p> + +<p>For it was like a painful and purposeless dream +that his life appeared when he looked at it +with waking eyes and found it filled with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>shabby joy, with vulgar sorrow and ignoble +anxiety. Now and then he wrote some poems +and stories to earn a little money and to prove +how far his words could follow his thoughts, +but with every new year all he had written in +the old seemed to him childish and worthless, +and he felt that nothing would amount to anything +which could not fill him completely with +the joy of creation. Beyond this he fulfilled +almost automatically the sum of actions, or +more properly gestures, which usually characterize +a young man in a government office or +to which other circumstances may lead. He +went to his work as late in the day as possible +and left as early as propriety allowed. He made +acquaintance with his fellow employees and +shared in their amusements. He drank punch, +ate suppers, and visited cheap girls of the +streets; he loved music and often sat at the +opera among the blackamoors and musical +enthusiasts of the upper gallery, and he sang +quartettes and took his reward in double file +when an old school superintendent hung the +gilded tin funnel on a rose-colored ribbon +around his neck with paternal hands.</p> + +<p>And he said to himself: «No, I’m dreaming. +This is not life.»</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-IX-_1"> + —IX— + </h3> + + +<p>Years passed.</p> + +<p>... Martin was roaming about in the twilight. +The streets and squares lay white, snow +was falling softly and silently. A man went in +front of him on a zigzag course lighting a lamp +here and a lamp there.</p> + +<p>Martin went along without a purpose; he +hardly knew where he went.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he noticed that he was crying as he +walked. He did not clearly know why. He did +not ordinarily find it easy to cry. Some snowflakes +must have caught in his eyelashes, and +his eyes had got wet.... He turned off into +a side street and came to a bit of park, he +brushed past a couple half snowed in on a +bench, and proceeded on among the trees, +where it was lonely and empty and the +branches drooped heavily under the wet +snow.</p> + +<p>... Strange! A hovel in an alley, a smoking +lamp. Two naked arms which bent and reached +forward to the window, and the sound of curtains +coming down. The girl, who was humming +the latest popular tune while she slowly +and unconcernedly hung up her red bodice—he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>hummed too so as not to speak aloud—was +she pretty or ugly? He did not know, he had +hardly set eyes on her. It was not she for whom +he longed.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-117.jpg" alt="Man reading at desk"> +</figure> + +<p>He had sat at home in the dusk, the icy blue +dusk of a March afternoon, twisting and turning +over an old poem that never would get itself +finished. Then all at once he had begun +to think of a woman. He had met her at noon +as he came from his work, and he had felt the +encounter as a sudden intoxication. She was +walking in the full sunlight, and many men +turned their heads after her as she went. But +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>she seemed to notice or suspect nothing. She +was very young—eighteen or possibly twenty. +She was neither expensively nor humbly +dressed, but she carried her head carelessly +and easily, perhaps too a little proudly. Slender +and straight, she went on her way, her +brown hair shining in the sunlight, and now +and then she smiled to herself. He followed +her at a distance; she went up to Östermalm +and vanished at last in a gateway.</p> + +<p>So it was that she had come before his mind +again in the twilight, as he sat in his rocking-chair +and hunted for rhymes; and she left him +no rest—he threw down his pen and went out. +There was no longer sunshine; it was snowing. +He came to the large gray house where he had +seen her go in; he walked to and fro on the +pavement directly opposite and saw a window +light up here and a window there. Who was +she? He remembered he had seen her speak to +a man he knew. He went up the steps and read +the names on the doors, until at last, deciding +that he was childish and stupid, he pulled up +his coat collar and went back into the snow. +He took by the arm the first girl that gave him +a meaningful glance and went home with her.</p> + +<p>Now he was standing there in her room. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>stood stiffly and silently surveying her as she +took off her clothes and chatted and hummed. +He hardly asked himself whether she was +pretty. He only knew that she might have been +prettier without tempting him more and uglier +without tempting him less. She showed the +marks of her calling. She was still young, and +yet one saw that she had long ago tired of +choosing and rejecting among her customers. +With the same habitual motions of her hand, +the coarse hand of a working girl, she hung +up her vulgar bodice for any one who asked +it of her, for lieutenant or clerk, minister of +justice or waiter, making no distinction between +them unless possibly that in her heart +she preferred the waiter, since he was less +haughty than the others and understood her +better.</p> + +<p>Whence did she come? Perhaps from a back +yard with an ash barrel and a privy, perhaps +from a village in the woods. The latter seemed +likelier; there was still something of the wood +girl in her eyes. Glad among other glad children, +she had run bare-legged on the slopes +and picked strawberries. Early her contemporaries +had taught her to bite of the forbidden +fruit. So she had come to the city and had fared +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>as did many others. It was perhaps not a necessity +in itself; she might have become a workman’s +wife if she had wanted, but she had decided +that their lot was harder and without +much thinking had gone the way that was +smoothest to her feet. With a little more intelligence +and better luck she might also have +become a tradesman’s wife, such as goes to the +square with her maid and bargains for her +boiled beef and horse-radish.</p> + +<p>«Well,» she said, «aren’t you going to undress?»</p> + +<p>He stared at her fixedly, and suddenly had no +idea of the whole thing, why he had come and +what he wanted of her. He muttered something +about not feeling very well, laid several crowns +on the dressing-table, and departed. She didn’t +get angry, only looked surprised and didn’t +throw any taunt down the stairs after him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It snowed continuously. Would it never end, +this winter? It was now getting on to the end +of March, the trees drooped with the snow and +it was bitterly cold....</p> + +<p>Martin was weary, he sat on a bench under one +of the white trees and let the snow deposit itself +in drifts on his hat and shoulders.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> + +<p>«What are we doing with life, we mortals?»</p> + +<p>The life he led, the pitiful joy he sought and +sometimes found, seemed to him at that moment +like the fantasy of a madhouse. Nevertheless +that life was the normal life. Most of the +men he knew lived thus. He was twenty-three. +In the four or five years he had been in the +game he ought to have got used to it....</p> + +<p>No, he didn’t understand humanity nor did +he understand himself. He often listened to +the talk of his friends and acquaintances about +these things. He had noted that the most respectable +of the young men, and of the old for +that matter, believed in two kinds of love, a +pure kind and a sensual kind. Young women +of the better sort were to be loved with the +pure kind, but that meant betrothal and marriage, +and that one could seldom afford. As a +rule, therefore, it was only girls of means who +could inspire a pure love; outside of that the +feeling was more at home in lyric poetry than +in reality. The other sort, on the contrary, the +sensual, a man might and should possess about +once a week. But this side of existence was not +considered to have a serious meaning; it was +not anything that could render a man happy +or unhappy; it was simply comic, the material +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>for funny stories, an equally pleasant and +hygienic diversion when one had received his +salary and drunk his bottle of punch. But in +the intervals the entire sexual life interested +but slightly the respectable and decent class of +men; they found its functions unbeautiful +and disreputable, or, as they otherwise put it, +bestial, since they could not exercise them +without feeling themselves like beasts.</p> + +<p>This was the prevalent opinion throughout the +community, and such conditions were explained +in that this way of living was the +healthiest and wisest, not of course in the +sermons of the clergy, the speeches of the politicians, +or the leading articles of the newspapers, +but in the enlightened judgment +between man and man in all circles. It was considered +necessary in order that young men +might preserve their health and good spirits +and that young women of the better classes +might preserve their virtue. The young men +accordingly drank punch, visited girls of the +streets, became fat and florid, and succeeded +not only in putting up with this life as with a +sort of wretched substitute, but it appealed to +them to such a degree that often even after +they were married they did not scorn to make +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>excursions to their old haunts, which had become +so endeared. The girls of the better class +meanwhile were allowed to preserve their +virtue and beyond that were not asked for +their opinion, but for some of them their +precious jewel became at last too heavy to +carry....</p> + +<p>«What have we done with our life, we mortals?</p> + +<p>«Happiness, the joy of youth, whither has it +gone? Life is regulated for the old, therefore +it is a misfortune to be young. It is regulated +for the thoughtless and stupid, for those who +take the false for the true or even prefer the +false, because it is a disease to think and feel, +a childish disease which one must go through +before one becomes a man.»...</p> + +<p>The apparition of a woman glided slowly past +the bench where he sat, and scarcely had it +passed when it stood still, turned its head, +and fixed upon him two great dark eyes.</p> + +<p>He rose, shook off the snow, and went away.</p> + +<p>He walked quickly, for he was cold.</p> + +<p>He thought about life and books. During his +adolescence a new literature had broken forth, +which was at war with the prevalent morals +of the community and endeavored to change +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>them. Now it had grown silent. Little had been +accomplished, almost nothing, and already it +was losing its hold. What the new writers had +fought for and in behalf of which they had +taken and given such hard blows now suddenly +belonged to the «’Eighties» and as such had +once for all been tried and condemned, +weighed in the balance and found too heavy. +Instead the blue flower of poetry exhaled its +perfume around him as never before. Once +again the old words rang like new; earth returned +to the golden age, the woods and waters +were filled afresh with centaurs and nymphs, +knights and damsels roamed into the sunset, +and Song herself, with eyes wide awake and +bright after her long sleep, stood forth again +in the midst of the people and chanted as she +had not done in a hundred years. Martin loved +this poetry, its rhythms and words stole into +the verses he himself sat and tinkered with +in the dusk, and yet all this was strangely foreign +to him. The world was just the same all +the while, everything went its usual way, and +no victory was won. Was this the time to sing? +It was true that, when he looked more closely, +he discovered ideas at the bottom of this new +poetry also, and these ideas too were in open +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>warfare against current morality. But only a +few readers noted this and hardly any one attached +any importance to it. It was just verse.</p> + +<p>It was verse, and as a form for ideas poetry was +and remained on about the level of the royal +opera. There too the baritone might bellow +against tyrants without thereby running any +risk of missing his Vasa decoration, there too +seduction scenes were played by artificial light +without any one’s taking umbrage; what in +ordinary life was called by ordinary citizens +bestial was conceived of by the same people +with regard to «Faust» and «Romeo and +Juliet» as poetic and pretty and thoroughly +suitable for young girls. It was the same with +poetry. Ideas, when woven into verse and +beautiful words, were no longer contraband; +they were not even noticed.</p> + +<p>Would a man never come who did not sing, +but spoke, and spoke plainly!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He had come out on Strand Avenue. The ice +on Nybro Inlet had just been broken, a tug +was now forcing its painful way along between +the cakes of ice. To the left several newly built +millionaire barracks towered up in the snowy +mist, in one of which the electric lights and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>polished glass prisms already gleamed from a +long suite of rooms, and in a large hall a white +shimmering maze of dancing couples moved +behind the muslin curtains.</p> + +<p>Several lonely wanderers had paused in a +group as if rooted to stare at the paradise above +them. Martin also stopped a minute and proceeded +with his thoughts. Several measures of +the waltz had reached his ears; it was the +«Blue Danube»; he walked on humming it +and couldn’t get it out of his head.</p> + +<p>O Eros, Eros! The harlot’s room and the festal +hall up there.... In both temples the same +god was worshiped, and in both temples he was +worshiped by the same men. But the women!</p> + +<p>He did not dance, and yet he loved balls. He +enjoyed standing in a doorway and watching +the others whirl by. What atmosphere was +there around all their festivals of youth which +fascinated him and made him meditative and +sick with longing after the impossible? Look +at the women! Held close in the arms of the +men, with eyes half-shut and mouths open, +the most innocent young girls flitted past in +dresses which exposed or emphasized their +young panting bosoms. What were they thinking +of, what were they dreaming of? There +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>were some no doubt who thought of nothing, +dreamed of nonsense, and had no other longing +than to stir their legs and keep in motion, +regular young girls after the hearts of their +mothers and aunts. But they were surely not +all so. The daughters of men could not have +changed so extraordinarily since the not too +remote times when youths and maidens carried +phallic images in procession, singing holy +songs. What did they talk about, these young +girls, when they sat together and whispered +in a corner? «She is secretly engaged to him»; +«He’s in love with her, but she’s fond of someone +else.» What was in the books they read? +The same thing: People who were in love with +each other, and how it turned out, and who +got whom. To «get,» what did that mean? +That one found out on the bridal night.</p> + +<p>But the years passed, and the bridal might +have to wait. The young girl got to be twenty-five, +she was nearly thirty, and still she danced +at balls with half-closed eyes, but her mouth +was no longer open; she now knew that this +looked unseemly, so she held it convulsively +shut, a blood-red streak. Would it never come, +the great, the wonderful experience? Her +glance was that of a drowning woman. «Save +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>me, I’m sinking, I’m going under! Youth is so +short. Look! my color is already fading, my +bosom is sinking in, and my young flower is +withering!» She tried being provocative and +bold, she was afraid she had been too timid +before, perhaps that was not the right way.... +But the gentlemen were already laughing +at her covertly when they drank healths +over their punch, and some of them mocked +her in public. Others understood her better +and thought within themselves that she might +make a good wife and an ardent mistress. But +they had no desire to marry, and to seduce a +girl of family would be a risky business. When +they left the ball they could easily and without +any ado find the way to their old place, to +the room with the smoking lamp, or with a +red night-lamp hanging from the ceiling.</p> + +<p>«What are we doing with our lives, we men, +and what are we doing with <i>theirs</i>?»</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Martin turned back into the city.</p> + +<p>On a street corner he met a poet, who was +freezing in a thin yellow-green ulster. He was +a few years older than Martin and already a +bit famous, for he wrote with fabulous ease +the loveliest verses on any theme, mostly about +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>girls and flowers and June nights on the lowlands +of Scania, whence he had come. He +had a pale face and a thin red beard; and +when he met a fellow-artist, his great childlike +eyes took on a wild and staring expression, +as if he were considering within himself: +«Shall I murder him, or shall we go in +somewhere and consume alcohol?»</p> + +<p>They went up to the «Anglais» and drank +green chartreuse.</p> + +<p>The poet talked about himself. He confided +to Martin that he was a decadent. He worshiped +everything that was disintegrating, rotten +at the core, and doomed to destruction. +He hated the sun and light—here he shook a +clenched fist at the gas candelabra on the ceiling—he +loved the night and sin and all alcoholic +drinks of a green shade. He had most of +the well-known venereal diseases and an insane +fear of crowded squares. Nothing in the +world could make him go diagonally across +Gustavus Adolphus Place. This disease gave +him a very special pleasure, for he took it as +the forerunner of general paralysis. And general +paralysis was the great sleep; it was nirvana.</p> + +<p>Martin listened absently. «Light is good,» he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>said to himself, «and darkness is good too. But +sometimes darkness is bad, and light too.»</p> + +<p>«But how is it,» he asked, «that your poems +are really not in any essential way different +from those which generally get the prize in the +Academy?»</p> + +<p>At these words the poet’s glance darkened, his +lips suddenly became thin and narrow. He took +a dirty sheath-knife from his pocket, pulled it +halfway out, and laid his index finger on the +bare blade.</p> + +<p>«How deep can you stand cold steel?» he +asked.</p> + +<p>«You misunderstand me entirely,» said Martin, +laying his hand calmingly on the other’s +arm. «I love your poems. Only I don’t see +rightly the connection between them and your +inner life as you have just pictured it.»</p> + +<p>The poet laughed.</p> + +<p>«It’s amusing to hear that you love my +poems,» he said. «The things I’ve allowed to +be published up to now, you see, are mere +skits. Good enough for the mob. Look +here!»...</p> + +<p>He took a newspaper clipping from his pocket, +a review of his last volume signed by a well-known +critic. This authority mildly deplored +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>that some of the poems could not be acquitted +of a certain tinge of sensualism which gave +an unpleasing effect. In others again the poet +struck purer tones, such as were fitted to give +rich promise for the future.</p> + +<p>«Well, that was quite friendly,» observed +Martin, when he had read it.</p> + +<p>«Friendly!» The poet again made a convulsive +grab in his pocket where the knife lay. +«Friendly, you say? Shouldn’t such an insect +creep in the dust before the wretchedest of my +poems?»</p> + +<p>«Oh, yes,» said Martin, «yes, naturally; but +since it isn’t the custom for older folks with +younger——»</p> + +<p>The poet was silent, took a drink, then was +silent a long while.</p> + +<p>Martin drank too. The strong green liquor +burned in his palate and his brain. Thereupon +the woman of the morning was there, the one +who walked in the sunlight and smiled. Was +she asleep now, did she dream, did she smile +in her dreams? Or did she twist about sleepless +on her bed in longing for a man?</p> + +<p>Should he write to her? He could easily find +out her name. No. She would only show the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>letter to her friends, and they would titter and +laugh....</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-132.jpg" alt="Man at table with bottles"> +</figure> + +<p>The café was nearly empty. In the farthest +corner a regular customer sat alone behind a +newspaper. In a mirror on the opposite wall +was the vision of an old gentleman with white +whiskers and a red silk handkerchief sticking +out of his breast-pocket. He was fat and red +and white, red by nature and white with powder, +and as he leaned his chest and arms +against the bar, he looked like a sphinx.</p> + +<p>The poet emitted a sigh. Martin studied him: +the face of a child under the red-bearded mask +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>of a pirate. It occurred to him that he had +possibly hurt this man’s feelings just now, and +he felt the need of saying something agreeable.</p> + +<p>«Do you know,» he said, «if you shaved off +your beard you would certainly look like the +most profligate kind of monk?»</p> + +<p>The poet brightened up.</p> + +<p>«I dare say you’re right,» he said, trying to get +a look at himself in a mirror. «What’s more, +I’ve written poems with a leaning toward +Catholicism. You ought to read my poems +sometime, the real ones, the ones that can’t be +printed.»</p> + +<p>«Surely,» said Martin. «Where do you live?»</p> + +<p>The poet declared that he didn’t live anywhere. +He hadn’t had any dwelling-place for +three weeks, and he didn’t need any. He wrote +his poems on the table of the café and slept +with girls. In the house of one of them he had +his green-edged traveling bag with some extra +collars and the poems of Verlaine, and there +too were his own manuscripts.</p> + +<p>Martin began to be really impressed, but he +found no outlet for his thoughts, and silence +once more spread itself between the two whom +chance had driven together on a street corner.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p> + +<p>The clock struck twelve, the gas was turned +half down, and the poet, feeling the approach +of inspiration with the darkness, began to +write verses on the table.</p> + +<p>Martin said good night.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Sture Square lay white and empty. The snow +had ceased, the moon was up, and it was more +bitterly cold than ever. To the east a new street +without houses opened like a great hole in a +wall. To the west a snow-covered jumble of old +shanties and stone gables was spread out in +the misty moonlight, and from one of the +streets of sin which slunk between them +echoed a woman’s laugh and the sound of a +gate being opened and shut.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-X-_1"> + —X— + </h3> + + +<p>It was late when Martin came home, and he +was dead tired but could not sleep. Black butterflies +fluttered before his eyes, and thoughts +and rhythms came to him as he lay and stared +into the dark. He raised himself in bed and +relighted the candle on his bedside table, +where paper and pen were at hand as always. +He felt no feverish overexcitement, only a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>deep weariness, which pained him but did not +delude. He saw clearly where his thought +wavered and needed the support of a rhythm, +a bit of melody; he changed and erased, and +finally a poem evolved.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You up yonder</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who are deaf and dumb!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You up yonder,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who with your right hand squeeze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The fresh and sweetly-smelling fruit of Good</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And with your left constrict</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The poison-dripping maggot nest of Ill,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Looking upon them</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With equal satisfaction!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You up yonder,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whose glance is dim</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With all the emptiness of space—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have a prayer to you.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">One prayer, but one,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which you can never hear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And cannot fulfill:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Teach me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Teach me to forget</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I ever met your glance.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For look!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In youthful days</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I myself made a god</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In mine own image,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A warm and living and aggressive god,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And on a spring day I went out</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To seek for him through all the world and heavens.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not him I found,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But you.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not life’s divinity</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But death’s I found under the mask of life.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Take the memory of the sight of you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Away, O horrible One! That memory is</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A hidden sickness, is a worm that gnaws</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My life-tree’s root.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know it well, with every barren year</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And every day that runs in vain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It gnaws yet closer to my being’s nerve.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It gnaws and preys upon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All that in me which is of human worth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All that which dares, all that which wills and works;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor does it spare</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The wondrous, brittle time-piece of the soul</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which points out Good and Ill.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Speak, you up yonder,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is it your will</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To re-create me after your own image?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was that the meaning hidden in your word:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">«He who hath seen God, he must die the death»?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O horrible One,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you the heart to infect</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Me, a poor child of men,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With your immortal vices?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-XI-_1"> + —XI— + </h3> + + +<p>The afternoon sun fell across the writing +table and gilded everything: the inkstand, the +books, and the words he wrote on the paper. +The smoke from the chimneys rose straight +and tranquilly toward heaven, and in a window +just opposite a young Jewess was playing +with her child.</p> + +<p>Martin was writing to his sister:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> + Dear Maria: +</p> + +<p>Thanks for your letter. Mamma is poorly as +usual, perhaps a little better these last weeks. Papa +keeps the same, only he gets more silent every year. +It’s very quiet here at home, for as you know I am +not one either to love idle talk. Silence is golden. +Uncle Janne, Aunt Louise, etc., are still, unfortunately, +alive and in health, though it doesn’t make +much difference anyhow, since we are not likely to +be their heirs. But they are always annoying me by +asking about the prospects of my work, whether +papa isn’t in line for the Order of Vasa soon, +whether it’s true that your husband takes morphine, +and so on. Otherwise there is no harm in +them.</p> + +<p>You ask whether I’m writing much just now. No, +very little, but on the other hand I have an appointment +for a long job as amanuensis, and last +night I dreamed very clearly and distinctly that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>papa and I got an Order of Vasa together, since the +king couldn’t manage to give us each one.</p> + +<p>Thanks for the invitation to come to you in the +summer, but it’s not likely I can get off—my appointment +will last over the summer. Too bad your +husband is nervous. Nice your little boy is well. +Remember me to all.</p> + +<p class="right"> + Your brother Martin. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>He put the letter in an envelope and laid it +aside.</p> + +<p>He sat and thought about his sister.</p> + +<p>«Is she happy?» he asked himself. And he was +forced to answer: «No, she is not happy. She +does not perhaps know it herself. Six years +ago she was very happy, when she was married +and became a doctor’s wife and had her own +little home in the country to look after—just +what she had most dreamed of. She hasn’t had +any sudden fall from the peak of happiness +since then. She has just very quietly slipped +down, as usually happens with the years. Her +husband is amiable and talented and a clever +doctor, but he offends the rich people in his +district and has most of his practice among the +poor. Therefore he is sometimes hard up. Besides, +I am afraid his health is undermined and +his disposition is sometimes rather bitter. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>However, he was in very good humor when he +was up here last alone, without her. He amused +himself as well as he could, and I fear he was +a bit unfaithful.</p> + +<p>«A curious bird, happiness....»</p> + +<p>During these thoughts Martin had begun again +to write. He wrote slowly and half in play, +with an intention here and there yet without +exactly knowing whither he was tending.</p> + +<p>«You do not know me. I met you one day in +the sunlight. It is weeks, yes, months since +then. You went on the side of the street where +the sun shone; you went alone with head lowered +and smiled to yourself.</p> + +<p>«It was one of those days when the snow was +beginning to melt on the street and the pavement +shone wet and bright. You stopped at the +corner of a street, greeted an old lady and conversed +with her. The old lady was very ugly +and very stupid, and I imagine too a little +cross, as stupid people generally are. But when +you looked at her and talked with her, she at +once grew less cross and less ugly.</p> + +<p>«A little farther up the street a gentleman +saluted you, and you bowed and returned his +greeting. I felt my heart become bitter with +envy, and I followed him with my glance as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>he went on down the street. But one could not +see it in him that he had just spoken to you. +One could rather believe he was a lieutenant +who had just saluted a major.</p> + +<p>«I have met you often since then. You do not +know me, and it is not likely that you will ever +know who I am. You go in the sunlight, I go +for the most part in the shadow. I am dressed +like many other men, and I always avoid looking +at you so that you see it. No, you cannot +find out who I am.</p> + +<p>«You have a lamp with a yellow shade. Yesterday +you stood long at the window in the +yellow glow, after you had lighted the lamp, +looking at the stars. You went to the window to +pull down the curtains, but you forgot about +it a little while. Straight in front of your window +was a star which burned more brightly +than the rest. I could not see it, for I stood shut +in by a little black gate opposite the house +where you live; but I know that on spring evenings +it stands just so that you must see it +from your window. It is Venus.</p> + +<p>«You do not know me, and I do not know you +otherwise than I do the women who sometimes +give me the great joy of visiting me at +night in my dreams. It is therefore I speak to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>you so intimately. But among these women +you have for some time been the only one, the +others have forsaken me, nor do I feel any +longing after them.</p> + +<p>«Read this letter and think no more of it; burn +it, if you will, or hide it at the bottom of your +little secret drawer, if you will. Read it and +think no more of it, go out as before in the +sunlight and smile in your own happy +thoughts. But you are not to show it to your +friends and let them giggle and snicker over +it. If you do that, for three nights in a row you +will not be able to sleep for bad dreams, and a +little devil from hell will sit on the edge of +your bed and look at you from evening till +morning.</p> + +<p>«But I know you will not do such a thing—you +will not show it to any one. Good night, +my beloved, good night!»</p> + +<p>Martin sat long with this letter in his hand. +«What could it lead to if I sent it?» he asked +himself. «To nothing, presumably. It would +set her imagination off a bit, her young girl’s +longing would perhaps have an impulse toward +the new and unknown. She might perhaps +bring herself to show the letter to her +friends, seeing that faith in devils is on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>wane; but she wouldn’t go so far as to burn +it. She might perhaps be amused with it, she +might even consider it her duty to feel offended. +But in reality it would in the long run +cause her joy, and if in the process of nature +she was married and had children and grew +old with household cares and every year sunk +deeper down in the inconsolable monotony +of existence, she would come to remember this +letter and wonder who wrote it and if perhaps +it was there that the true seed of happiness lay +hid. And she would never once recall that it +ever made her angry. Nor as a matter of fact +does it contain anything that could properly +hurt her. It shows her only that she is desired +by a man, and as she is twenty and from head +to foot an uncommonly beautiful and glorious +creation of nature, she must already have +noticed that men desire her. And that doesn’t +at all make her angry, but on the contrary +happy and joyous, and that is why she walks +in the sunlight and smiles.»</p> + +<p>Amid such thoughts he sat a long while weighing +the letter in his hand as if it had been a +human destiny, till in the end he found his +hesitation ridiculous, put the letter in an envelope +of thick untransparent paper, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>wrote the address in a thin and non-committal +girlish style so as not to rouse any curiosity in +the young lady’s family. Without revealing +any special interest on his part he had succeeded +in learning her name. She was a Miss +Harriet Skottë. Her father had an estate in +the country, in the Malar district, and she was +now spending the winter in Stockholm with +some relatives to study something or other, +French or art-tapestry or something of the +sort ... in order to get engaged, to put it +briefly.</p> + +<p>Harriet Skottë. He repeated the name to himself +and tried to analyze the impression it +evoked. He dwelt in particular on the forename +and murmured, «Harriet, Harriet.» +But this gave him no impression of her nature; +it roused only an indefinite conception of +something English and pale and blonde, a +sensation of tea fumes and benevolence and +chilly bedrooms with varnished floors as at a +hospital. The surname, again, only suggested +family, an uncle who was on the Board of +Trade, and a cousin who was a lieutenant in +the Army Service Corps. But if he whispered +to himself the whole name, «Harriet Skottë,» +there came in a new element which quite excluded +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>the others, then it became something +quite different and new, then he felt as if she +herself passed through the room with her +brown hair glinting in a sunbeam.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He started at the ringing of the hall bell; he +heard the maid open the front door and a +familiar voice asking if he was at home. He +stuffed the letter into his pocket. The next +instant the door opened and Henrik Rissler +stood in the doorway blinking at the sunlight, +whose copper-red rays struck horizontally +across the room.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-XII-_1"> + —XII— + </h3> + + +<p>Henrik Rissler had come down from Upsala. +He had just taken his preliminary degree and +in a couple of weeks was to make a tour down +in Europe while he wrote his thesis, «On +Romantic Irony.» He had no independent +means, but his uncle—a bank lawyer, politician, +and millionaire—had offered to pay for +the trip. This Martin already knew from Henrik’s +letters. But before he started he was to +rest a few weeks. He was somewhat overworked, +for he had studied hard so as to get +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>away from Upsala as soon as possible, and he +had also taken extra time to write some critical +studies for a magazine and so become a +little better known among the score or so of +men who interested themselves in such things.</p> + +<p>Martin had been expecting him for a couple of +days and had a bottle of wine and a pack of +cigarettes ready.</p> + +<p>Henrik shaded his eyes from the sun and said: +«Here everything is the same. Here time has +stood still.»</p> + +<p>«Yes, in this immediate region,» answered +Martin. «Only they have built a big factory +chimney over opposite. It has been quite a +diversion for me in solitude. For a while I +worked in competition with the masons, but +I was beaten. I began on a poem when they +had just begun on the chimney; now the chimney +is done, but not the poem. It’s beautiful, +what’s more—the chimney, I mean. Especially +in the evening as a silhouette. The smoke +no longer belches out, one forgets its purpose; +it is no longer a chimney, it is a pillar tower +built by some Chaldæan prince and priest, +who mounts it when night comes on and measures +the course of the stars.»</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> + +<p>«Yes,» said Henrik, «one forgets the purpose, +then first it becomes beautiful.»</p> + +<p>«No,» replied Martin, «it doesn’t become +beautiful because one forgets its purpose, but +because one invents for it another which has +the prestige of old and venerable poetic tradition. +But outside of that, in and for themselves, +without any fancification, factory chimneys +are among the most beautiful of modern +structures. They promise less than they make +good, and at least they are no masquerade figures +either in Gothic or Renaissance.»</p> + +<p>Henrik smiled. «You’re talking in the style +of the ‹’Eighties,›» he said.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Henrik Rissler sat in his old place in the sofa +corner, Martin sat in the rocking-chair at the +writing table. They were drinking wine and +talking about Upsala, about books and women, +and about a new philosopher by the name of +Nietzsche. And as they talked, the sunbeam in +which the motes danced like red sparks grew +ever narrower and more oblique and more decidedly +red.</p> + +<p>Martin surveyed Henrik. He found him +changed; his face was leaner, stronger, and +more masculine in contour. Why had he said, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>«Here everything is the same, here time has +stood still»? He had had an experience, but +what? He was in love presumably; he would +perhaps go so far as to get engaged—to whom? +Was it his cousin Anna Rissler? She was fond +of him and he knew it. No, that couldn’t be. +Was it Maria Randel, or Sigrid Tesch?</p> + +<p>«It’s curious,» observed Henrik. «Have you +felt the same thing?—how painful it is to +search for old associations and not to find +them. To read over a book one has been fond +of, or hear an opera into which one has formerly +been able to put everything imaginable +and a bit more—and sit empty-handed, wondering +where it has all gone to!»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» Martin agreed, «it’s a strange, oppressive +feeling. One feels as if it was one’s duty +to stick to the past, as if one were committing +an infidelity.... And one can do nothing. +Why is it really so painful? Is it perhaps because +there is no plaintiff in the suit, no clearly +formulated claim to meet? For the plaintiff +is not the book or the music which one has +lost touch with, not the mood which shrinks +away; the plaintiff is one’s old self, and that +is dead and buried, it is supplanted and refuted +by the new, it has no plea to make and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>yet it does make a sort of plea. Therein lies +the paradox, and there is nothing as vexatious +as a paradox, when it is not comic.»</p> + +<p>Henrik took up the thread.</p> + +<p>«Yes, you are right; it is between the old and +the new self that the battle is, and as long as +there is a new which is the stronger, one can +always master the phantoms. There is a continuous +growth. The old goes, the new comes—or +the old goes, that’s really the one certain +thing, for how long can one be sure whether +the new will come in its place? Suppose the +supply should stop some day, suppose nothing +under the sun should be new any more, and +one only became poorer with every year and +every day that passed!»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» said Martin, «that sort of thing happens +sometimes. And there are cases then in which +a man digs up the oldest, the deadest, and +most withered thing in his past and begins to +worship it anew without seeing the caricature. +That’s nearly the worst of all. Better the old +saying: poor but proud.»</p> + +<p>They sat silent a few minutes. The sun had +gone, and still it was not twilight yet. It was +almost brighter in the room than just before; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>everything in it had merely become suddenly +pale.</p> + +<p>Henrik broke the silence.</p> + +<p>«Yes,» he said, «it’s a melancholy feeling to +grow out of oneself and one’s old associations—but +what’s it matter so long as one grows? +And what is melancholy, anyhow, if it isn’t +what the rowdy said of the toothbrush, a new +kind of amusement invented by the upper +classes? But the melancholy is only there when +it’s a matter of associations and music and +ideas. It was really something else I’ve been +thinking of all the time. I’ve been thinking +of love and women. If one comes into that +province, it isn’t only just melancholy any +longer; no, one can’t get off so cheaply. A man +is fond of a woman. He wants the whole of +eternity to be in that feeling. And yet he can’t +escape reflecting that this emotion must be +subordinate to the same law of growth as +everything else in the world, that some day he +will weary of what he loves just as one wearies +of the moonlight music in ‹Faust.› I have +not had many love affairs, but, believe me, I +have never even in my imagination begun the +game otherwise than with the thought: may +she be the first to tire, and not I!»</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> + +<p>«I’m afraid that prayer will not be often uttered,» +said Martin. «To be sure both a lover +and a married man may be betrayed, but it +rarely happens that they wish to be.»</p> + +<p>«Still I’m ashamed of the prayer, for I know +it comes straight from my heart’s great cowardice. +How far must we not have come from +the primitive simple and straightforward conception +of these things to think it is happier +to be betrayed than to betray! And yet that’s +how I feel. What does love signify to me; +what does it ever mean to a man? Why should +there be anything tragic in the fact that a man +is betrayed in love? If he takes it tragically +he merely becomes comic. And if on the discovery +that he is a cuckold he breaks off +reading a good book, he deserves to be one. +But women—it’s a different thing with them.»</p> + +<p>Henrik’s glance was fixed on vacancy.</p> + +<p>«Deserted women,» he said—«there’s something +special about them. One can’t escape +lightly from the thought of them. No, if they +scold and fuss and make a row, it’s easier at +once; then the whole thing becomes burlesque, +one shakes it off, and is free. Then one asks +oneself, ‹How did I ever come to love such a +creature?› One easily persuades oneself that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>one has never loved her, and so she’s out of the +story. But the others—it seems the most painful +thing of all to me to imagine her whom +I love withered and pale, discarded, put in +the shadow side of life, while I myself live +on.... It is a paradox, I realize—it can +never happen; one cannot at the same time +act so and feel it so. And yet ... I met an +old woman just now, here on the street, right +outside your door. She was old and very pale +and a little comic. She was quite shabbily +dressed, too—one of the poor who are too +proud to beg. One often sees such old women; +there was nothing remarkable about her, +nothing that distinguished her from any others +of her kind, except that all at once, when I +came close to her, she struck me as so like—— No, +I can’t tell you straight out. There’s a +young girl I’m very fond of. I’m so fond of +her that we’re going to be married, perhaps +very soon. It was she that the old woman was +like, despite the difference in age and all the +rest—it was one of those indefinite resemblances +that one thinks one sees the first moment, +and the next it’s gone without one’s +knowing in what it consists. But that moment +was enough for me; a chill went through me, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>a shudder as if I had seen something terrible, +and it seemed to me only all the worse that +everything else was as usual: the sun was +shining and people were on the street.... +The girl I care for stood before me, she passed +me, withered, discarded, a little comic. It came +over me that not even the thought that I myself +was dead and lying under the earth could +be any consolation to me in such a case; the +only conception that could bring any relief +was that I was living as wretched and exhausted +as she.»</p> + +<p>They sat quiet a long while.</p> + +<p>«Tell me,» Martin finally asked, «who is she, +the girl you are fond of? That is, if it’s no +secret. Do I know her?»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» said Henrik, in a subdued voice, «you +know her, and I can tell you. It is Sigrid +Tesch.»</p> + +<p>Sigrid Tesch. Martin saw before him a young +and supple figure, with dark abundant hair +and delicate regular features. He had met her +a couple of times quite cursorily. He knew +she had made an impression on Henrik, and +in his own twilight thoughts she had sometimes +passed by with a pallid dream smile.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> + +<p>So it was she then, Sigrid Tesch, who was to +be Henrik’s bride.</p> + +<p>«Yes,» said Henrik, «isn’t it inexplicable that +one can dare go into such a thing as love?... +And yet....»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» said Martin, «and yet....»</p> + +<p>They both smiled.</p> + +<p>Henrik Rissler got up.</p> + +<p>«It is dusk,» he said; «we can hardly see the +glasses. Will you go out with me? It’s wonderful +outside tonight. Oh, you want to write—— Well, +we’ll see each other again soon. +Good-by!»</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-XIII-"> + —XIII— + </h3> + + +<p>It was dusk now, almost dark, and Martin +was still sitting in his rocking-chair at the +table and could not get up energy to light +the lamp. There was a little wine left in the +bottle; he poured it into his glass and drank. +He had raised the window to let the smoke +drift out, and through the trampling of feet +which rose from below like the sound of a +hundred ticking clocks he heard the house +door open and close again and steps going +off down the street—they were Henrik’s. Martin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>thought about his love and what he had +said about it, and he was at once struck with +the fact that at the mere touch of this bit of +reality his own love affair evaporated and was +gone like mist and dream. Harriet Skottë.... +He asked himself: «If I should read in +the paper tomorrow that she was engaged or +married, or that she was dead—what would +that signify to me? Nothing, no reality lost, +no expectation gone to shipwreck—just a +mood burst, which would soon have burst +anyhow.»</p> + +<p>He took from his pocket the letter he had +written, tore it open, and read it again. «I’ll +burn it,» he thought—«but why burn it? I +may be able to use it sometime in a story.»</p> + +<p>He tossed it into a table drawer among other +manuscripts. Then he sank again into reverie.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Suddenly his mother stood in the doorway. +She held a lamp in her hand and was leaning +forward, looking at him.</p> + +<p>«You’re sitting in the dark,» she said. «Papa +has gone out. May I sit with you here a +while?»</p> + +<p>Martin nodded. She set the lamp on the table, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>fetched a basket with her sewing, and sat down +to sew.</p> + +<p>She sat silent, bent over her work. At length +she raised her eyes, large with tears and sleeplessness.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-155.jpg" alt="Woman at table with book"> +</figure> + +<p>«Tell me, Martin,» she said; «you mustn’t be +cross, but one day when you were out I +couldn’t help pulling out a drawer of your +table and glancing at your papers. Otherwise +I should never know what you’re thinking +about. And what I got hold of made me so +worried that I had to sit down and cry. I +didn’t understand it, I don’t know if it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>supposed to be verse or what it was, but I +thought it was only full of terrible blasphemies. +I got so frightened, I almost thought +for a moment that you were out of your head. +I know I don’t understand anything, but so +much I can still see, that you’ll never get +anywhere with writing that way. You can +write very finely, too, if you want to.»</p> + +<p>Martin was silent. What should he answer? +He divined, or at least supposed, that his +mother had really wished to say something +quite different, and that her saying he +wouldn’t get on in the world was merely a +forced expedient which she caught at when +thoughts and words deserted her. She had of +course felt and suspected that the poem she +had found in the drawer was meant to be +taken quite differently from the way she now +feigned to think, she wanted him to explain +himself, to talk to her about his thoughts. She +was pounding at the door, «Let me in! don’t +make me stand outside; I’m cold and it’s so +lonely!» And yet he didn’t open the door, he +couldn’t; he hadn’t fastened it, it had locked +itself.</p> + +<p>What ought he to answer her? Her words had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>filled him with a deep discouragement. If he +had any ambition, it was to write so that each +and all who really cared to could understand +him. He had no taste for any literary freemasonry; +he did not believe in a literature +for the <i>élite</i>, nor had he failed to observe how +often it happened that no one wanted to be +of the <i>élite</i>. Now it suddenly became clear to +him how hopeless was his ideal: there was +no art for all, there were no thoughts for all; +on the contrary the simplest ideas in the clearest +language were but seldom understood by +others than those who were familiar beforehand +with just that type of thought. How +should he be able to speak with her about his +thoughts, when her vocabulary, as the monotony +of the years had developed it, did not +even suffice to express what she herself thought +and felt at the bottom of her heart? The god +with whom his poem dealt was of course +Spinoza’s god, the World Soul; but this god +was merely an intellectual experiment, +whereas hers—his mother’s—was at least a +product of the imagination and as such had +a bit more life and more blood. How should +he explain that what she called blasphemies +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>did not apply to her god? She would have +answered that there was only one god. He +knew all she would answer and say; therefore +he remained silent and looked out of the window, +listening to the Saturday tread of tired +feet on the pavement, and the rain which began +to fall against the windowpanes.</p> + +<p>And as to what she had said about his future, +what could he say? To that there was but one +answer: to be successful, to become famous. +And that answer he could not give. «If I win +recognition some day,» he thought to himself, +«a recognition such as would gratify her, it +will be when she is no longer alive. So it always +is. Why should I hope for an exception +for her and me?» What was he to do? Ought +he to put his arms around her neck, ought he +to stroke her hair and kiss her? No, that +wouldn’t seem natural. He didn’t care for +that sort of deception and she didn’t either; +he knew her; she wouldn’t be satisfied with +that. She had asked, and it was an answer she +awaited. He could answer nothing, and he +was silent.</p> + +<p>He was silent and felt at the same time how +the silence burned in her breast, and though +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>he could say nothing he sought instead with +his glance to meet her eyes, those eyes which +used to smile so bright and blue when they +looked into his. It still happened sometimes +in the midst of dinner or in the evening at the +tea-table that she looked at him and nodded +and smiled brightly as before, as mothers nod +and smile to their little children before they +are able to talk. Perhaps she had the feeling +that time had gone in a circle, and that this +smile was the only form of expression she still +had in her power when she wished to communicate +with her children. It was just so +that he wished she could have looked at him +and nodded and smiled, with a smile far beyond +all the unimportant things which separated +them.</p> + +<p>But she did not smile now; she sat silent with +hands crossed on her knees, and her eyes, generally +so near to weeping, now stared tearless +into the shadows as if they sought and asked, +«Are all mothers as unhappy as I? As lonely? +As deserted by their children?»</p> + +<p>The lamp flame fluttered in the night wind. +She rose and said good night, took the lamp, +and went out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-XIV-"> + —XIV— + </h3> + + +<p>Martin still sat a long while at the window.</p> + +<p>«Here time has stood still,» Henrik Rissler +had said. «Yes, he was right. Here it stood still, +time. It is by changes that one measures the +course of time; I have nothing to measure it +with. I shouldn’t even know it was Saturday +today if I didn’t hear the tramping down +there.»</p> + +<p>An old story came to his mind. There was +once a sinner who died one evening in his +bed. Next morning he awoke in hell, rubbed +his eyes, and called, «What’s the time?» But +at his side stood the devil laughing and holding +up before him a clock that had no hands. +Time was over and eternity had set in.</p> + +<p>«Eternity; no hurry any more....</p> + +<p>«Other people have day and night, workday +and holiday, Christmas and Easter. For me it +all flows into one. Am I then already living in +eternity?»</p> + +<p>And he thought on: «Tomorrow is Sunday. +What does that mean for me? It means that +tomorrow I am free from my ostensible work, +and that I thus feel twice as strongly the demand +of that which should be my real work. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>But if the weather is fine, I shall naturally +go out for a walk.... So, anyhow, it won’t +be a real Sunday no matter what I do. What a +strange sort of work I have taken upon me! +Wouldn’t it be better to give it up while there +is still time, to submit to the rules that hold +for other men? One is never done with this, +there is never a feeling of quiet and rest. +Many a free Monday, but never a real Sunday, +never any more!</p> + +<p>«My ostensible and my real work—how long +shall I be able to keep up this illusion? The +truth is I’m in a good way to get a permanent +job, that in eight or ten years I could become +a regular clerk, and in forty years would get +my discharge with a pension. My poor mother +would be able to spare herself a deal of trouble +if she saw all that clearly as I do now. But she +imagines in the innocence of her heart that +what I write on a few scraps of paper at night +will hinder my advancement, for she has no +conception of the boundless indifference of +men of ideas. To hurt my prospects I should +be forced to write personal abuse about my +superiors, and why should I do that? They +are good-natured men and have got me gratuities +and commissions although others deserved +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>them better. They have certainly taken an +interest in me. I am not the sort of fellow to +put a torpedo under the ark; they have felt +that instinctively, and they are presumably +right.»</p> + +<p>He felt that he would eventually be lost in the +multitude. He could not escape the thought +that he was at bottom like all the rest; and +whether this was his rightful fate, or whether +he was too exceptional to be effective among +exceptions, he felt only that routine held him +every day more tightly a prisoner and that he +was going to be lost in the crowd. And the +other thing—his poetry; what was that and +whither could it lead? Once when he had +needed money he had collected a bundle of +his poems and gone around to the publishers. +A couple of them had wanted to print the +volume but none had been willing to pay anything. +«No,» he had answered very seriously, +«do not count on my ambition!» When +he had come home he had looked through +these verses again; and again, as so many +times before, he had found them uninspired +and empty. Most of them were written so as +to be sold at once to a magazine and showed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>that they were so written. And he said to himself, +«How absurd it is for a man to make a +business of ideas when he has no sure means +of subsistence! As clever as the way the minister +at a funeral sermon transforms the dead +man’s means of livelihood into a mission in +life. But existence knows how briskly and +mercilessly to transform a mission in life into +a means of livelihood for a man with no income. +Yet supposing this should be a real +means of livelihood—but no, it won’t be; distaste +and weariness will come, one will tire +of the whole thing and sink back, down into +the crowd.</p> + +<p>«Down into the crowd; one will do as the +others do, there will at least be no more need +of conjuring tricks, one will get back his sense +of time, one will have Sundays and weekdays, +work and rest, real rest....»</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The night air streamed in cold through the +window, he shivered but couldn’t make himself +raise his arms and shut the sash. The rain +fell steadily, and, as often happened when he +was very tired, his thoughts began to go into +meter and rhyme:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I sit alone in the darkness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And hear the falling rain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I hear the drops come plashing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Against the windowpane.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A grief on my heart lies heavy,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My labored breath comes fast.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drop after drop my youthtime</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is trickling, trickling past.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_WINTER_NIGHT"> + THE WINTER NIGHT <img alt="Three-leaf glyph" src="images/glyph.png" style="width:1.0em"> + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> +<div class="chapter"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-I-_2"> + —I— + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>Over Martin’s table in the +office an electric light with a green shade +swung, like a pendulum, gently to and fro +on its silken cord. It had been set in motion +just a moment ago when he had lighted it. +He stretched out his hand to stop it, but instead +waited the time when the swinging +should subside and die down until it was imperceptible. +Lamps were likewise screwed up +over the other tables, six shining green triangles +swung to and fro in the semi-darkness +of the room, and lean writers’ hands fumbled +at the windows after the curtain cords to pull +them down and shut out the snow and the winter +dusk. Martin loved these green lamps, +which gave out no heat or bad odor, and whose +glow had the pure and cold sheen of jewels; +and he longed for the day when electric light +should be cheap enough to make its way down +even into the homes of the poor. And just here +in this big low old room with whitewashed +walls, because the house was old and had a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>groined gateway and low small-paned windows +in the entrance hall where his office was, these +green lamps seemed to him to fit in even better; +he saw in this a symbol of continuous development, +an unbroken chain of hands and +wills, from those which had wearied long since +to those which were now in embryo, the new +inwoven with the old. Where all is old there +enters an atmosphere of wretchedness and +decay, and where all is new only that can +thrive and feel at home which is itself new +from top to toe, from pocketbook to soul.</p> + +<p>And Martin was not new, his clothes were not +new, nor were his thoughts. He thought and +knew nothing great other than that which +others had taught him—various old gentlemen +in England and France who were now +for the most part dead. If these thoughts still +brought him any joy, it was mainly because +the times had seemingly forgotten them long +ago, as if they had been written in running +water. Other winds were blowing now, winds +before which he preferred to draw up his collar +over his ears; everything came back and +all the corpses peeped out, but he did not care +to see them.</p> + +<p>The lamp had ceased to swing over his desk, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>and he returned to his accounting. He no +longer contented himself with putting down +ticks; he carefully scanned every item and +added up every column. His first youthful +antipathy to a mechanical task was long since +conquered, and he had gradually come to +learn that these figures were not, as he had +first believed, entirely free from the imperfections +which are inherent in everything human. +On the contrary they were often encumbered +with inaccuracies and mistakes; and +when he now and again discovered such mistakes, +he was glad at heart but felt at the same +time a faint sensation of sorrow. He was glad +because he had occasion to show his great +zeal and because he could count upon his +rightful percentage of the sum which his alertness +had saved the state treasury; and he felt +the dark memory of ancient sorrow when he +recalled that he had desired a quite different +sort of joy from life. Sometimes, too, he +thought of the poor officials down at Landskrona, +Ohus, or Haparanda, who had made +the wrong calculations, perhaps under the influence +of last night’s toddy, and who would +now have to pay the difference. But this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>thought left him cold, for the years had taught +him he must set limits to his sympathies.</p> + +<p>It was warm in the room, the remains of a +great birchwood fire glowed in the porcelain +stove, for there was no inducement to spare +the government’s wood in these times when +one had to skimp one’s fuel at home. Von +Heringslake, the chief clerk, who had an income +of forty-six hundred crowns and performed +his duties with the pleasant ease which +comes with an independence, sat squatted in +front of the stove and roasted apples over the +embers. On his bald pate—which his mortal +enemy, Auditor Camin, asserted was the result +of early dissipations but which in reality +shone with the innocence of early childhood—glinted +the triangular reflection of a green +lamp. The fragrance of roasted apples spread +and stung Martin’s nostrils, and he was bitterly +annoyed that he had not in all ways +the same views concerning this and the future +life as Heringslake, for then he would surely +have been offered an apple. From Auditor +Camin’s place sounded for the hundredth time +the old pronouncement, «The country will +never be right till we make the farmers pay +for shooting licenses.» And down at the bottom +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>table off by the door, where it was +draughty and there was a wet odor of umbrellas +and overcoats, the youngest generation +was eagerly at work putting in ticks and +trying at the same time to recount in whispers +the orgies of last night and the number +of punch bottles emptied.</p> + +<p>Martin was still young, for in government service +one ages slowly, but he was no longer one +of the youngest and did not have to sit in the +draught of the door. He had drunk brotherhood +with most of his immediate superiors and +in his turn did not neglect the duty of laying +aside formalities with those who were +younger than he. These ceremonies were wont +to be performed at a general banquet in December. +This was to occur in a few days, and +the list of subscriptions was now being circulated +in the department, but Martin did not +sign it. He had other uses for his money, and +there was only one of the newcomers with +whom he would have cared to drink brotherhood, +a young man who had a place just opposite +him at the same table and in whom there +was something familiar and appealing to his +sympathy: namely, an absent and dreamy +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>glance and the mechanical gesture with which +he set down the ticks. Martin often used to +talk to him about the way of the world and was +pleased when he sometimes received intelligent +answers.</p> + +<p>As he handed over the subscription list without +writing on it himself, the other looked up +and asked in a tone which seemed to convey +a touch of disappointment, «Aren’t you coming +to the banquet?»</p> + +<p>«No,» answered Martin, «I have another engagement. +But we who are above conventional +forms can assume that we have drunk brotherhood +just the same.»</p> + +<p>The other blushed a little, and they shook +hands across the table.</p> + +<p>«Tell me,» the younger man asked after a +while, «why does Auditor Camin want to +charge the farmers for shooting licenses?»</p> + +<p>«I don’t really believe he wants that,» Martin +replied. «He knows that shooting licenses for +the farmers would raise the price of necessities +even more than taxes. He is only repeating +an old saw that he heard in his youth when he +was an assistant. It has stuck to him because +it expresses a collective antipathy, a class +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>hatred; and commonplace men always need +to hate and love collectively. Look out for +that, it is one of the surest signs of an inferior +point of view. He likes women, officials, +leading actors, and West Gothlanders, because +he is a West Gothlander himself; and he hates +farmers, Jews, Northlanders, and journalists. +It is true that the farmers are a bit stingy in +recognizing the services which he and the rest +of us perform for our country, and that is why +he hates them. But in that they observe the +same principle as all employers of labor: to +pay as little as competition will allow. If there +was a shortage in clerks, they would pay +more.»</p> + +<p>Von Heringslake, who had by now eaten his +roasted apples and resumed his place at the +table next to Martin, turned on his chair and +surveyed him mournfully.</p> + +<p>«You have no heart,» he said.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was after three o’clock; here and there the +men were gathering up their papers and going +off. Martin got up, took his coat and hat, put +out his green lamp, and departed. He had +crape on his hat, for his mother was dead.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-II-_2"> + —II— + </h3> + + +<p>He turned into Long Western Street. On +snowy days such as this he nearly always took +that street, because in the narrow winding +rift between the tall old houses one was as if +half indoors, in the lee of the worst wind +gusts.</p> + +<p>«Winter, cold.... Strange there are people +who assert that they like this weather. Heringslake, +who has a heart in his breast and +loves his native land, regards cold as preferable +to heat. But when it’s cold, he always +puts on furs. The conception of hell as a very +warm place clearly originated in the torrid +zone. If a northerner had invented it, it would +have been contrariwise a fearful place for +draughts, the breeding ground of influenza +and chronic snuffles. But such as the climate +is, I have got used to it, and it has possibly +done me excellent service of which I myself +am not aware. Provisions are laid on ice in +order to keep; everything is preserved longer +in cold. Why not human beings as well? I once +longed to be consumed in the flame of a great +passion. It never came, whether because I was +not deserving of so great an honor, or whatever +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>the reason may have been. But now, afterwards, +I have begun to misdoubt that such a +conflagration may rather be a bonfire to amuse +the spectators than any real enjoyment for +the chief actor. Fire is, in any case, distinctly +not my element. If a real spring sun were ever +to come into my life, I should go rotten at once +from being unused to the climate.»</p> + +<p>He stopped a moment in front of a jeweler’s +window. Most of the pieces were distinguished +by a commonplaceness which left him no regret +that he could not purchase any. Once, +indeed, it was just a year ago to the day, he +had bought a little ring with a green emerald. +She to whom it had been given still wore it +and never wanted to wear any other ring. She +said she shouldn’t ever want to wear a plain +gold ring. Well, in any case he couldn’t offer +her such a specimen....</p> + +<p>«I’m ungrateful,» he said to himself, «now +that at last a little sunlight has come into my +life, more maybe than comes into most. But I +have been frozen too long; I haven’t been able +to thaw out yet.»</p> + +<p>He had come out on Mint Square, the northerly +gale blew his eyes shut with the snow, +and he felt his way along, half blind, toward +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>North Bridge. He had to stop again to get +breath at Looström’s bookstore, where the +celebrities of the day were exhibited in the +window: Crispi, King Milan, and Taine, while +between an Excellency and a forger he discovered +a face that looked familiar. It was a +Swedish poet, the decadent who had expounded +his ideas of life at the «Anglais» +over the green chartreuse. He was not there +because he was a great man but because he +was dead.</p> + +<p>Martin went on toward home.</p> + +<p>«At last a man who has reached his goal! His +goal was a bit unusual, and he did not reach it +quite as he imagined; he never got the general +paralysis of his dream, for he died simply +and modestly of consumption. But I don’t suppose +he was so particular as to details; as a +matter of fact he only wanted to succumb, no +matter how. Perhaps he was right; that’s the +sort of goal one ought to set for oneself if he +hopes to reach it in his lifetime. It is true one +might also propose to oneself to be a millionaire +or a bishop or a member of the legislature, +and that goal too one can usually reach if he +really wants to. Those who know how to concentrate +their will with sufficient intensity on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>a single object are so extremely few that the +competition is by no means prohibitive. +Everybody wants to be rich, but most men +wish at the same time to live as if they were +rich already; they want to take things easy, +to have a nap after dinner, drink champagne +with the girlies and so on, and so they never +get rich, never even become bishops or members +of the legislature. He who wants to stop +on the road every now and then and enjoy life +a bit before he reaches his objective will never +reach it; and the others, the indefatigable pilgrims, +the men of will who arrive—what have +they left afterwards when they get there?</p> + +<p>«On the other hand it is possibly superfluous +to expend any particular effort on the objective: +to succumb. That is a goal which can certainly +be attained at a cheaper price; it even +comes near of itself, slowly and surely. The +best thing is perhaps that which the other +dead man over there in the bookshop window +loved so much while he lived: a big tree and +tranquil thoughts. For it is not quite true, +what Messer Guido Cavalcanti said when he +felt death approaching, that it is as vain to +think as to act. In one way it is no doubt true: +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>namely, that the final result will always be +the same black pit, and as a meditation on +death Messer Guido’s words have their value. +But looked at from another point of view, it +is clear that he who enjoys thinking is always +in this world of incalculables in a slightly better +position than a man of action. Because for +him the minute has its worth in and for itself, +independent of the uncertainties of the future. +He who wishes to become a Knight of the +Order of the Seraphim or a pope and gives up +everything, the pleasures both of thought and +of love, to attain that object—and the first sacrifice +at least is inevitable—and then gets a +fishbone in his throat and dies before he has +reached it, his life is a nullity, an intention +without performance. But he whose standard +lies in thought may have his life cut off at any +point and it will be like the snake of popular +superstition, it will still live, it will have +its value even as a fragment; nay, it has never, +properly speaking, assumed that it wished to +be anything but a fragment. For he who is +measured by the standard of thought can +never set himself any human goal, or if he +does, this will be arbitrary and inessential, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>and it is a matter of no significance whether +he reaches it or not.»</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Martin had got up to Östermalm and was almost +home; he was hungry and was eager for +his dinner, yet he stopped at a street corner +and looked up toward a window high up in a +fourth story.</p> + +<p>Yes, there was a light there; she was home +then. He knew that already, anyhow, and he +knew besides that she expected him after dinner. +In the evening they were to go to a theater +together; they were to sit in a stage box +behind a screen where nobody could see them.</p> + +<p>He had taken a mistress. Chance had brought +them together. She worked in a life insurance +office in the morning counting money. She +worked for her living. She had, to be sure, an +old father somewhere off in the country, a +pensioned forester who wrote her letters three +times a year; but she was self-supporting and +depended upon no one. Like other young girls +she had dreamed of a happiness which should +be correct, and had guarded her jewel in the +hope of being married. She had had her fancies +and been in love with men who had not +even noticed it. But these small flames had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>gone out when they had no fuel, and if a man +not too ridiculous or repulsive had wished to +offer her his hand, she could easily have persuaded +herself that she loved him. But she +had seen the years run away; she had danced +in the winter and bicycled in the summer, and +many men had let her divine by their looks +and veiled words that they would gladly possess +her; but no one had wanted to marry her, +for she had no dowry and did not belong to a +family with influence. The more economical +and diffident of the men, moreover, were +frightened by her elegance, for she had a sure +and delicate taste and two industrious hands, +and many a night she sat up by her lamp and +sewed cheap remnants and old shreds into +dresses, which later gave to inexperienced eyes +the impression of having cost a great deal, or +to the more skeptical-minded even suggested +a doubt of her virtue. She was not, however, +beautiful enough for the men whose feelings +were governed by their vanity, nor did her +nature have anything of the sweet and docile +quality fitted to attract men who wished to be +lords in their own home, men who had simply +tired of bachelor life and therefore looked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>about for a nice and charming and modest and +obedient wife.</p> + +<p>Both her own character and her outer circumstances +were such that she had no great prospect +of being loved for any other reason than +love, and she had gradually begun to suspect +that this feeling, of which so much was said +and written, was really scorned and put to +one side so that it was extremely rare. She +had thought over all this, she had felt the minutes +running through her fingers like sand, and +had decided that the years to come would be +still more wretched and worthless than those +before and that the jewel she guarded was +losing its value every day. Most of all she had +been frightened at how quickly women age +who live without men, except those who are +so fortunate as not to feel any strong desire +or lack. But she was not of these; no, she was +a real woman and she knew she was. The desire +which in her first youth had only been a sweet +and indefinite longing, a dream of happiness +of a strange and unknown sort, now burned in +her veins like poison; and her first timid girlish +fancy, which had hardly dared to look beyond +a kiss in the twilight between bushes of +roses, had developed with years into a hobgoblin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>much worse than those used in children’s +picture-books to frighten naughty boys. +Her glance became wistful and yearning, and +she tried to bring herself to a decision.</p> + +<p>She had almost given up hope of a husband; +it was a lover she was seeking, and even him +she sought for long in vain. It was not that +there was a lack of men who would take her +out to dance; there were on the contrary many, +and she could make a choice. She looked +around in her circle; she flirted right and left. +She grew less afraid about her reputation than +before and went to secret rendezvous with +men who had been attentive to her some evening +at a ball. But they remained strange to +her, and every time an understanding was in +the air, she was overcome with shame and became +suddenly icy with fear and repugnance. +For every time when the critical moment +came, she read in the man’s eyes the ineradicable +crudity of his heart. She read it as +plainly as if it had stood written on white +paper that what was for her a wholly new experience +in life—perhaps ruin, perhaps salvation—was +for him an amorous adventure. She +read that what she was about to do was in his +eyes merely a <i>faux pas</i>, which he could overlook +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>only in so far as it gave him pleasure; +and she read that not only did he intend to +give her up very soon, but that he also meant +to salve his conduct beforehand by showing +her his contempt. She saw all this and tired +of the game before it had begun, asking herself +if she might not just as well follow the +path of virtue, which in any case was clearly +the most convenient, and wither into old age +without will and without hope.</p> + +<p>But when she met Martin all this became different, +and when she gave herself to him she +felt no more fear, because she saw that he +had understood her, that his thoughts were +not like those of the others, and she felt that +he loved her. With him she felt no shame, nor +did she feign any, for she had already sinned +so much in her thoughts that the reality +seemed to her innocent and pure. She was no +longer young; she was getting on toward +thirty, just as he was. Her complexion had already +been marked by the early frost, and +vanished illusions had made her bitter at heart +and crude of speech. But the bitter heart beat +warm and fast when it rested on his, and the +ugly words did not make her mouth less sweet +to kiss.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-III-_2"> + —III— + </h3> + + +<p>Martin sat alone with his father at the dinner +table within the same circle of yellow light +which had enclosed the sleepy winter evenings +of his childhood. Martin Birck and his father +had seldom anything to say to each other. They +thought differently about everything except +the taxes on food-stuffs. This lack of agreement +did not, however, cause them any sorrow; +they attached no importance to it. They +both knew that different generations think differently, +and they found this natural. Nor did +they find silence anything painful or oppressive; +it was just the self-evident expression +of the fact that nothing had happened which +could give rise to an exchange of opinions. +When they chatted together it was mostly +about the improvement of government work +and about new houses. For Martin’s father was +interested in his city. On Sundays he often +went for long walks to distant parts of the +city and saw how new suburbs shot up out of +the earth. He thought of how Stockholm had +developed since his youth, and he found all +the new houses handsome, especially if they +were large and imposing with many windows +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>and small towers at the corners. And when +Martin heard his father speak of all these +ugly houses and call them handsome, he +thought of how unjust life was, since it remorselessly +closed the way to the inner regions +of beauty for the best and most useful members +of the community. For the way thither +went through melancholy, there was no other, +and it was not idly that the Greek musician +answered Alexander, «May the gods never +make you so unhappy, my lord, that you may +learn to understand music better than I.» Martin’s +father had had a youth too full of worry +and a manhood too full of strenuous responsibility +to know anything of the mental depression +with which life punishes those who +think more about beautiful and ugly and +good and evil than they do about their daily +bread.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>On this day, as usual, Martin’s father discoursed +about one thing and another over his +coffee and cigar. He spoke of a men’s dinner +he had attended the day before, where he had +felt embarrassed on account of his Vasa decoration; +for he had gone with the large official +medal, which was the only one he had, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>whereas the other men had had the small +miniatures.</p> + +<p>«So,» he finished, «I looked like the biggest +fool of the company.»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» observed Martin, «appearances were +clearly against you. But in reality the miniature +medals of the others gave the clearest +proof that their foolishness was greater, since +because of their decoration they went to more +expense than was strictly necessary.»</p> + +<p>«Yes,» his father answered, «I thought of that +too, but I felt awkward, anyhow.»</p> + +<p>The conversation died down. Martin was +thinking of various stories about decorations +which he had heard, such as that about a man +who had been given the Vasa medal because +he had sent flowers to the royal hospital on the +days when the queen was to visit it, and about +one who got the North Star because he had +bought a house. But it never occurred to him +to tell these, because when he thought the matter +over he could see that these stories, which +he found so amusing, might not have quite +the same effect on the elder man, who had +earned his decoration by forty years of ill-paid +work in the government service and +could therefore hardly fail to think of it without +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>some respect, although in conversation he +might make fun of it.</p> + +<p>Silence spread out around them; the father +smoked his cigar and looked out into the dark, +and Martin sat in thought. He thought of the +history of his home, how it, like other homes, +had come into existence, grown and blossomed, +and how afterwards the bonds had one +after another been broken: his sister married, +his mother dead. The best time, the blossom +time, was mostly that when the children had +just grown up and the elders were not really +old. It was true he had heard old women +say that the happiest time was when the children +were small. Yes, that might well be—for +the mothers. But he remembered the years +when his sister had just grown up and was +about to be married. Then everything was +glad in the home; they had youth, friends, +music. The piano, which now was dumb, still +held the waltzes and opera selections of the +bygone years; and often when he lay awake at +night, he could still hear the Norwegian songs +they sang then: «He Leaned above the Garden +Bench» and «I Ask Thee Not for Roses +from thy Breast.» In these songs still lived a +part of his youth, and they now seemed full +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>of all the strange melancholy of the past. Then +suddenly the house had became silent, more +silent with every year, till one day the father +sat alone with the son in an empty and shattered +home.</p> + +<p>Looking at his father, he asked himself, +«What can I be to him?» «Infinitely little,» +he had to answer, «almost nothing.» She +whom he had loved from his youth up now lay +under the earth, under a little snow-covered +gray stone, and could not warm his age. The +fire on the hearth was ready to die out. <i>He</i> +was the one whose duty it was to kindle the +new flame. He felt it was this which, in the normal +course of things, the elders of the family +had the right to expect of the young: to see +the chain carried on, a new home, and grandchildren +to rock on their knees. It was so +that nature had arranged, she tried everywhere +to hide the dead with new young life, +as we ourselves cover corpses under flowers. +Dissolution was thus more easily approached; +the way went downward, to be sure, but one +took it amid play and prattle, as when one +started the journey. But to that great and simple +craving he could answer nothing. It was +true he could do several things: he did not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>think there was any sort of beauty in the world +that was foreign to him, or any thought or +shade of a thought that he could not follow, +and furthermore he could look over government +ledgers and inscribe signs in the margins, +and drink a good deal of whisky without +losing control of his mind, and perhaps a +few other small matters. But he could not +build a home. Not a chance, not a possibility +of it. An artisan, a day laborer could do it, but +not he. He could not conjure forth the four +thousand crowns a year that a poor family of +the middle class needed to live. If he could ever +get to that point, as he well might with years, +he would be old, his father dead, and she +whom he loved—what would have become +of her?</p> + +<p>But it was true, he realized, that the old man +did not, at least not consciously, make any +such demand on him. On the contrary his +father understood clearly how impossible it +was. He had no hope of seeing a continuation +of his line, of being able to grow old in an +environment of futurity and promise and new +scions. But Martin realized that just this, the +fact that he could have no such hope, weighed +upon him like a dark sorrow and made his twilight +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>even more gray and empty. He had had +grief enough without that. He had received +small pleasure from his daughter’s marriage. +Her little boy was dead, and she had lately +written home that she wanted a divorce from +her husband.</p> + +<p>«The fire is dying on the hearth. Who is to +kindle the new flame?»</p> + +<p>His father went into his room for his after-dinner +nap.</p> + +<p>It was five, and Martin dressed to go to her +who was waiting for him. He put on an evening +suit despite the fact that they were to be +alone and unseen. He had promised her that, +for it was their bridal anniversary.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-IV-_2"> + —IV— + </h3> + + +<p>She stood at her dressing table, where two +narrow candles burned before the mirror. She +had just arranged her rich brown hair, and +before she finished her toilet she touched her +face with a powder puff to subdue the color. +He sat behind her in a corner of the sofa, but +their glances met in the mirror and were fixed +on each other in a long smile. The trembling +of the candle flames and the distance, which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>the mirror lengthened, made this smile dark +and mysterious. And far within the dusky +depth behind the glass danced a green spark +from the emerald on her finger.</p> + +<p>«Shall you be ready soon?» he asked. «It’s +half-past seven. I’m afraid we shall miss the +ghost.»</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-191.jpg" alt="Man in evening suit"> +</figure> + +<p>It was Hamlet they were to see.</p> + +<p>She turned and stroked his cheek with the +powder puff, so that he became as white as a +Pierrot.</p> + +<p>«Silly Pierrette,» he said, wiping off the powder +with her handkerchief, «don’t you see I’m +pale enough as it is?»</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> + +<p>She leaned down, pressed his head to her +breast, and kissed his hair.</p> + +<p>«I am so happy,» she whispered, «because it is +my bridal day today, and because I am going +to the theater with you to sit in a little nook +where no one can see us.»</p> + +<p>He caressed her hand softly. He felt a secret +stab in the heart when he heard her speak so, +for he knew almost to a certainty that if there +had been any chance of it she would much +rather have sat with him in a place where all +could see them. But he did not believe that +she had been thinking of this just now. Never +during the past year had she let fall an allusion +to marriage, and she knew only too well how +impossible it was. But he on his part could +never cease to feel it as a secret disgrace that +it was not in his power to give her the happiness +which belonged to a secure and respected +social position where she would not need to +conceal anything from the world. He felt thus +not because there remained in a corner of his +soul any idea of a duty to be performed or of +any transgression that ought to be atoned for, +but because he was infinitely fond of her and +could have wished to make life bright for her +eyes and smooth for her little foot, which had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>such stony paths to go that it was not surprising +if at last it had trodden a bit awry.</p> + +<p>He dismissed these thoughts, however; he did +not mean to attempt the impossible; he was +no strong man who could take her in his arms +and break a way for them both. And she had +made her own choice. She had known strong +men too, the kind of men of whom women +commonly say, «He’s a real man»; if she had +wished she might have given her love to one +of them, and he would not have despised it. +But her deepest instinct had held her back +with forebodings of shame and unhappiness. +For, strangely enough, it was precisely the +strong men who rarely acted as he could have +wished to do had he been able; they were +strong just because in the crisis, when there +was really something at stake, their feelings +always formed an alliance with their profit, +and they usually knew where best to employ +their strength. No, he and she had nothing +else to do, lonely and chilled as they were, +than gratefully and without any yearning for +the impossible to warm themselves at the happiness +which had fallen into their hands, +blessing the day when they were driven together +by the voice of their blood, which told +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>them that they suited each other and could +bring each other joy. Secretly, however, he +often liked to dwell on the remote vision that +some day many years hence he might be able +to give her a home. The thought that by then +she would be already an old woman did not +frighten him. He had the feeling that, no matter +how fast time flew, even if she had gray +hair and wrinkles around her eyes, her young +white body could never become old—it would +still remain young and warm as now; and no +matter how the years passed and winter after +winter snowed under his youth and stung his +soul and his thoughts with needles of ice, his +heart would always be warm as now to the +beating of hers, and that always when the two +met there would spring up a spark of the +sacred fire which warms all the world.</p> + +<p>While he was thinking all this, his eyes were +following every motion of her slender white +arms before the mirror. Again his smile sought +hers, she nodded to him with a glimmer of secret +happiness in her color underneath the +powder, and deep within the dusk he saw his +own face, the features sharpened to a mask-like +quality by the candlelight, nodding in answer +like a Chinese doll.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p> + +<p>«There’s no hurry,» she said. «In any case +we can’t creep into our little corner before a +good bit of the first act is over; otherwise we +might meet acquaintances in the lobby.»</p> + +<p>«That’s true, you are right,» he answered.</p> + +<p>He had thought of that himself too.</p> + +<p>«One must have one’s wits about one in such +a position as ours,» she nodded. «It’s a different +thing from sitting with one’s nose down +over a book. But isn’t it almost like magic, +when one thinks about it, that we’ve actually +been left in peace a whole year and that nobody +knows anything? I even think people +speak less badly about me now than they used +to. Everybody has got so friendly toward me: +the manager, the clerks, and the girls in the +office. But perhaps that’s because I’ve become +prettier—haven’t I? They certainly see I’m +happy, and that makes them kindly disposed, +so that they are cheerful and nice to me without +suspecting why. If they knew!——»</p> + +<p>Martin didn’t like to hear her talk of their happiness. +It was a different thing to read it in +her eyes and her color and to feel it in her +kisses; he believed in it then, and no text +could be more precious to interpret than that. +But when he heard her talk about it he felt +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>on his breast a weight of bitterness and oppression +at the thought of how little he had +really given her and how full of faults and +deficiencies her poor happiness was. He knew +that the short minutes she spent with him +took on such vivid color just because she had +to pay for them with long days and nights of +fear, fear lest she should suddenly lose what +she had dared so much to win, fear that all of +a sudden everything might end some day, her +golden happiness turn to withered leaves, and +she herself be left more poor and lonely than +ever before. This fear never really left her, he +knew.</p> + +<p>Once, it had not been so long ago, they had arranged +to meet at his house. The time was approaching, +he was awaiting her, there was a +ring at the door, and he hurried to open it. +But it was not she; it was one of his friends +who had come to sit and talk a while. He +could not say he was engaged or that he was +expecting a visit, or the friend would have +met her on the stairs and taken in the whole +thing. He said instead that he was just going +on an important errand, put on his hat and +coat, and they went out together. They had +not gone far beyond the gate before he saw +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>her coming along the street. She cast a frightened +and uncertain glance at him and he +raised his hat to her as he passed, politely and +a little distantly, as he had to do so as not to +betray her. He turned off into a side street to +get rid of his friend and after a couple of minutes +came back circuitously to his gate. She +was walking in front of it in the rain and mud. +He pressed her hand softly and they went up. +But when she was inside the door he saw she +was trembling with sobs.</p> + +<p>There was no need of explanations; she had +already understood the situation, but his curt +and chilly greeting as he passed, while he was +talking with a strange man, had been enough +to rouse the secret fear in her blood; she had +to give it vent, she had to weep, and she wept +long and silently in his arms.</p> + +<p>Ah! their poor happiness; it had given them +much but it could not bear the bright and arid +illumination of words; it could not endure being +spoken of. All his tenderness could not +give her the calm which accompanies a life +that can be shown to the multitude and approved +by them, nor could it in solitude prevent +her from sometimes feeling ashamed and +conscience-stricken. For because life had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>shown her two different aspects, between +which she could not see any connection, she +had not one conscience but two. One told her +she had acted rightly and that the time would +come some day when no one would be able to +understand any more why people had formerly +concealed the love between man and +woman in shame and filth and called it sin. +But the other conscience said nothing about +the future; it rose from the depths of the past, +speaking with the accents of her dead mother +and with voices from her home in the woods +and from her childhood, when she knew nothing +of the world or of herself, when everything +was simple and one only needed to be good to +have things go nicely.</p> + +<p>On evenings when he had just left and she +sat alone in her rented room with strange +stupid furniture, amid which the bureau with +the Empire mirror and the green stone top was +the only thing that was hers and the only object +to remind her of her childhood home, +the old conscience would rise up and whisper +many vulgar things into her ear. It whispered +that both the women who married men repugnant +to them so as to be provided for and the +poor girls who sold their bodies from necessity +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>were better than she was, for they had at least +a reason for their conduct but she had none. +It did not help that she thought of her great +love and defended her course with that; the +old conscience was prepared for such an argument +and whispered in reply that it was not +he who had kindled the fire in her blood; her +own desire had blown upon the flame; the +evil was in herself, and she was an abandoned +creature who ought to be whipped with rods +in the town hall, as people used to treat women +of loose morals. Still worse things this conscience +hit upon, whispering that he whom +she loved would soon tire of her, nay, that +he had already tired and despised her in his +heart because she was always so willing to sin +and had never denied him anything.</p> + +<p>He knew all this, for she always let him share +her troubles. He in turn always felt the same +wonder and surprise at this philosophy: +namely, that the same desire which in a man +was so natural and simple and as easy to admit +as hunger or thirst, should be for a woman +a burning shame which must be quenched or +concealed; this philosophy, which he never +could comprehend emotionally, though he followed +it in his reflections all the way to its +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>source in the dusk of ancient times, when +woman was still man’s property and when the +sensual side of her nature was permitted, even +praised, as far as it expressed her submission +to the will of her master, but was considered +criminal and shameful if it came from her own +will. This philosophy was still so firmly rooted +in woman that modest ladies often felt a secret +shame in loving their husbands and longing +for their embraces. He even recalled how +he had once heard a woman of the streets divide +her kind into the decent and the sluts, +meaning by the decent those who only thought +of giving themselves for money. As a matter of +fact this division was more just and profound +than she herself imagined. It had its origin in +the policy of women inherited through millenniums +from one generation to another, as +necessity had dictated it from the beginning. +Necessity bade a woman not to lower by generous +prodigality the price of the commodity +which was the only means of power for the +weaker sex, the one thing which could save +it from being wholly trampled down by the +stronger. If the poor streetwalker had known +her Bible better, she might in support of her +classification have cited the savage anathemas +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>of the prophet Ezekiel against the lascivious +Ahala, who was not as other harlots, «whom +a man must needs purchase with money.»</p> + +<p>He realized all this quite well; life was too +stingy to allow women to be lavish, and he +condemned none of them, not even the modest. +But he loved his generous mistress and +consoled her as well as he might on the days +when the warning voices within her had frightened +and filled her with remorse. That was +not hard for him to do, because when he was +with her she felt no fear. But he knew also that +there were days, nay, weeks, when she went +about in consuming anxiety for fear she might +have a child in spite of everything. He did +not conceal from himself that this was the +weak point in all secret love. He saw clearly +how uneven the game must always be when +one approached this point, how all the risk +and danger lay on the side of the woman, and +again he was secretly ashamed that it was not +in his power to share with her the bitter as +he shared the sweet. The risk of having a child +was hers to begin with, and if this was avoided +she had still the lack and emptiness of not being +able to allow herself the happiness of +motherhood. It cut him to the heart when he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>once saw her at twilight take a strange child +from the street in her arms and kiss it. But +motherhood for her would have implied continual +misery, as the world was now.</p> + +<p>Neither of them had, however, been pampered +by life; they had taught themselves not +to covet any complete and unblemished happiness, +and love had helped them to take all +this as it had to be and ought to be taken.</p> + +<p>She was ready now; she put out the candles +in front of the mirror and waited a couple +of minutes in the dark while he went ahead +of her on the street, so that no one might +meet them together on the stairway. On the +street they sometimes ventured to walk together +after it was dark, especially if the +weather was misty or if there was rain or +snow. On this particular evening the snow was +falling so thick and white that nobody could +have recognized them. People passed them in +the white night like phantoms without name +or distinction. Close together, nameless themselves +and somewhat like the silhouettes which +children cut out in pairs from folded paper, +they made their way through the snow. She +held his arm pressed to her bosom and both +were silent.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="-V-_2"> + —V— + </h3> + + +<p>It was dark in the house, and Martin had +pushed up the slatted shutters of the box. No +one could see them, nor from where he sat +in his corner could he see anything of what +was happening on the stage. He only heard +lines and responses thrown out in the dark, +and saw, or fancied he saw, their effects on +the curving rows of pale human masks—a +sloping flower bed full of large curious flowers, +colorless as are plants that grow without +sunlight, and not exactly beautiful as they +waved gently, as if before an inaudible wind, +or nodded on their stems from time to +time.</p> + +<p>He imagined he could recognize them all, +whether because he had really met them so +often on the street and in public places, where +he had been one of them, that their faces had +become fixed in his subconscious memory; +or because of the tendency of human faces to +group themselves into a few types, so that one +rarely seems to encounter a really new face.</p> + +<p>Some of these faces, furthermore, he knew +very well. Over yonder sat Henrik Rissler, his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>friend from boyhood. They seldom met now, +and that was a pity, for Martin knew of no +one with a better appreciation of friendship, +ideas, and cigars than he. But he had now +been married for several years and led a migratory +life. He had not yet finished the odyssey +of the newly married couple from one damp +abode to another, always on the outside edge +of the city, from the Vasa Quarter to South +Stockholm, and from there to Kungsholm. But +Martin had the conviction that they would +find each other again, if life would only grant +them both a little more repose.</p> + +<p>And there, a bit farther down, that little +wrinkled face that reminded one both of a +child’s and of an old man’s—wasn’t that another +old schoolmate, wasn’t it Josef Marin? +He had never become a clergyman as he should +have according to the ideas of his obstinate +old mother. But he never got firm in his faith. +It is often with faith as with appetite—it comes +with eating; but he had never got to where the +eating began, and he had also at bottom perhaps +a thirst for sincerity which made his +course a bit too difficult. Now he covered the +music halls and funerals for a large newspaper. +He wrote unreservedly what he thought and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>took pains to think as he supposed the editor +did; and the editor, who was the deuce of a +fellow and could think whatever he wanted to, +was careful to think as he imagined the educated +and well-to-do folk of the community +thought. And because these principles had set +the tone of the paper, it had become popular +and respected and very old, having a fixed +reputation for incorruptible honesty and unpartisan +love of truth.</p> + +<p>«I might really just as well have become a +clergyman,» he had said one day to Martin, +rather mournfully, when they were exchanging +a few words at a street corner.</p> + +<p>And there, far up in the center, that pale +slender woman—was it not she who had been +his flame on certain spring evenings many +years ago, Harriet Skottë? He had written her +a letter, too, which had never been sent. Ah! +those days.... Life had gone a bit poorly +with her since then; she did not look happy. +She was married now, and her husband was +beside her. He was fat, very well dressed and +looked as if he had been varnished. Poor little +child, she hadn’t been too lucky in her marriage +choice—one could tell that by a look at +her husband....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> + +<p>And he saw other faces, those of women whom +he knew slightly although they didn’t know +him, young women whom he kept in friendly +remembrance because sometime without their +being aware he had been a little richer and +happier when they had floated past him on the +street like sunlit clouds.... Down there was +one whom he remembered well, for she had +once noted his glance and had pulled her +skirts around her and given him a look as if +he were a murderer of the Jack the Ripper +type. Poor little lady! the time had flown, she +was no longer young, for she had then been in +her late bloom, and now she would get no +more such glances when she went down Sture +Street....</p> + +<p>He grew tired of looking at one thing and +listening to another. The deep and wonderful +old words which sounded from the stage said +nothing to him at the moment, and he thought +he could read by the masks in the parquet that +the words recoiled unheard from them too, +and that they scarcely comprehended more of +what occurred on the stage than the mere pantomime. +It was the fifth act. He leaned back in +his corner, letting the two grave-diggers toss +about skulls and witticisms as they chose, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>while he sought in the dark the glance of his +mistress. But he did not catch it, because she +could see everything from her place and never +took her eyes from the stage. Then once more +the words took on color and life to his ears, +when he saw the eagerness in her face; and the +whole churchyard scene, which he could not +see but which he knew so well, seemed to be +mirrored in her glance. He saw Hamlet stand +there in his mantle of night and mystery with +Yorick’s skull in his hand, he saw the funeral +procession, the lowering of the coffin, and the +queen as she strewed flowers on the grave: +«Sweets to the sweet.» He saw the strange +struggle in the grave, the two men wrestling +down there, and he heard Hamlet’s voice, +«I loved Ophelia.»</p> + +<p>What did he want—did he want to tear her +out of the grave? Suppose she were not dead, +suppose she should arise from the coffin now +as if after a quiet sleep—wouldn’t he take her +in his arms and carry her away and love her to +the end of days? No, it was not as he thought. +He had said while she was still alive, «Lady, +I loved you once.» He was no ordinary fickle +cavalier, he had not forgotten her for another +lady-in-waiting with a slenderer waist and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>a deeper bosom, and still he could say, +«I loved you once.» He could possibly say +that of many things. He had loved the sun, +and the flowers and the trees. The blue +heavens he had loved, and water and fire and +the good brown earth. He had loved all that; +to all the four elements and to life itself he +might have said, «I loved you once.» But then +things had changed, there was something +which stole in between all this and him, something +which took him in its grasp without asking +any leave and drove away everything else, +the sun and the flowers and the women and +Woman, far away, so that he hardly saw it any +more except as if through a mist.... And +now when he saw the funeral procession come, +and heard that it was for her whom he had +had and had lost—but he also knew that he +had lost her and all the rest before she was +dead, and the very loss seemed real to him +only at the first moment; at the next he saw it +far off, through a mist.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Martin had shut his eyes, and when he opened +them again, he himself saw everything through +a mist: the parquet and the white masks down +there and her whom he loved.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> + +<p>She took his hand and caressed it softly between +her two warm hands while she whispered +to him, «Tell me, what are you thinking +of?»</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp90"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i-209.jpg" alt="Man and woman in front of a window"> +</figure> + +<p>The winter night slept around them. It snowed +no longer, and they went home in a white +moonlit mist through the snowdrifts, in +through her door and up the stairs. It got +brighter and brighter the higher they climbed. +They stopped at a stairway window and looked +out. The greater part of the mist was now below +them, it lay wrapped around the yards and +open spaces beneath, but in the upper regions +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>of the air everything was almost clear; it was +bluish and bright as a night in August. A wide +ring of light was around the moon, and in the +pale glow the world lay as if ice-bound and +petrified. Out of the ocean of mist down there +arose a lonely gable wall without a window, +which absorbed the cold glance of the moon +and stared blindly and emptily back. A long +shiver went through them both, they pressed +hard against each other, closing their eyes, +and everything was lost to them in a kiss.</p> + +<p>It became a long and wonderful kiss. He felt +all her being dissolve, while he heard in his +ears the sound of distant bells from a little +country church far away between hedges and +wheat fields. It seemed to be a Sunday morning: +he saw a neat gravel plot, red peonies +were glowing from the flower beds, white and +yellow butterflies were fluttering about the +bushes and the lawn, and he heard the rustling +of mighty trees. He was walking with her +among the trees, but through their murmur +passed a breath of autumn, the yellow butterflies +were yellow leaves, and some were already +dark with frost. The wind carried with it +broken accents and words, which were sometimes +like the dry words of everyday speech, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>sometimes like furtive whispers about something +that had to be kept secret, with all of +which was blended as it were the echo of the +actor’s strange intonation a little while before +when he said, «I loved Ophelia.»</p> + +<p>But he did not relinquish her mouth. They +sank ever more deeply into one another. He +seemed to be voyaging through space: in the +white moon-mist burned a red star, first faint +and expiring, then more powerful and ever +nearer, growing and broadening into a flaming +spring of fire, to which he fastened his +lips tightly. He seemed to burn without suffering, +the flames cooled his tongue like a +slightly bitter wine, until he felt that he was +drinking in everything: satiety and hunger, +thirst and coolness, the sun’s health and the +midnight’s anguish, the lucid thought of day +and the morbid brooding of moonlit dusk, all +the joy and all the misery of the earth—from +this one spring.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> +<p class="center" style="white-space:pre">MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH BY HJALMAR +SÖDERBERG IS SET IN BODONI TYPE. +THE ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY THEODORE +NADEJEN. FORMAT BY A. W. RUSHMORE. +MADE BY THE HADDON CRAFTSMEN. +HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS +· MCMXXX ·</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </h2> +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained.</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 9 changed ; to ! following «death»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 37 changed » to › following «kick.»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 42 joined unhyphenated parts of «cauldron»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 90 removed period between «know» and «——»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 107 changed «say" to «saw»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 133 changed close quote to close guillemet following «right,»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 136 changed quotes to guillemets around «He who hath seen God, he must die the death»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 178 changed «superstitution» to «superstition»</span><br> + <span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">p. 188 changed period to comma following «little»</span> +</p> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78363 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78363-h/images/cover.jpg b/78363-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..95cb7b5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/glyph.png b/78363-h/images/glyph.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..58dc218 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/glyph.png diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-007.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-007.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..260a763 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-007.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-022.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-022.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fac85c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-022.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-036.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-036.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..807c391 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-036.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-053.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-053.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4fe06d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-053.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-074.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-074.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4dd39b0 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-074.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-097.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-097.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6230d2d --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-097.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-117.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-117.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7c890a --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-117.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-132.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-132.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c41563e --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-132.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-155.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-155.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7bb509c --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-155.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-191.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-191.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..342cdcc --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-191.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/i-209.jpg b/78363-h/images/i-209.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..46bd06d --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/i-209.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/preface.jpg b/78363-h/images/preface.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..692b849 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/preface.jpg diff --git a/78363-h/images/tree.jpg b/78363-h/images/tree.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..46ecb47 --- /dev/null +++ b/78363-h/images/tree.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0aa4a4d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78363 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78363) |
