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Red Room, The

<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> <h3>REVUE</h3> Licentiate Borg at Stockholm to the Landscape Painter Sell�n at Paris Dear Sell�n,—You have waited a whole year for a letter from me; now I have news to tell you. If I were acting on my principles, I should begin with myself; but as I had better conform to the rules of politeness laid down by civilized society—seeing that I am about to go out into the world to earn my own living—I will begin with you. I heartily congratulate you on the success of your recently exhibited picture. Isaac took the notice to the Grey Bonnet, and it was printed without the knowledge of the editor, who was furious when he read it; he had firmly made up his mind that you should be a failure. But now that your genius has been acknowledged abroad, you are famous at home too, and I need no longer be ashamed of you. In order to forget nothing, and to be as brief as possible—for I am lazy as well as tired after a day's work at the hospital—I will write my letter in the shape of a report and the style of the Grey Bonnet; this will have the additional advantage that you can more easily skip those parts which do not interest you. The political situation is becoming more and more interesting; all parties have corrupted one another by presents and counter-presents, and now all of them are grey. This reaction will probably end in Socialism. There is a talk of increasing the number of the districts to forty-eight, and the Ministerial career is the one which offers the best chances of[315] promotion, more especially as a man need not even have passed the examination of an elementary school-teacher. I met a school-friend the other day who is already a pensioned Cabinet Minister; he told me that it was far easier to become a Minister than a secretary of one of the departments; they say the work is very much like the work of a man who signs guarantees—it is only a matter of a signature now and then! It doesn't matter so much about the payment, there is always a second guarantor. The Press—well, you know the Press. Roughly speaking it is just business, that is to say, it always adopts the opinion of the majority, and the majority, or, in other words, the greater number of subscribers, is reactionary. One day I asked a Liberal journalist how it was that he wrote in such laudatory terms about you, of whom he knew nothing. He said it was because public opinion, i.e. the largest number of subscribers, was on your side. "But supposing public opinion turned against him?" I asked. "Then, of course," he said, "I shall turn against him too." You will understand that under these circumstances the whole generation which grew up after 1865, and which is not represented in Parliament, is in despair; and therefore they are either Nihilists—in other words, they don't care a d—— for anything—or they find their advantage in turning Conservative. To be a Liberal in these days is the devil's own job. The financial position is depressed. The supply of bills, mine at least, reduced; no bank will look at the safest bills, even if they are signed by two doctors. The "Triton" went into liquidation, as you know. Directors and liquidators took over the printed shares, but the shareholders and depositors received a number of lithographed ones from the well-known society at Norrk�ping, which alone managed to weather this period of frauds and swindles. I met a widow who[316] had a handful of papers connected with a marble quarry; they were large, beautiful sheets, printed in red and blue, on which 1000 Cr., 1000 Cr., was engraved; and below the figures, just as if they were standing security, appeared the names of well-known persons; three of them, at least, are knights of the Order of the Seraphim. Nicholas Falk, the friend and brother, sick of his private money-lending business, because it detracted from the full value of his civic authority, which is far from being the case when the business is a public one, decided to combine with a few experts(?) and found a bank. The novel feature of the undertaking was expressed as follows: "As experience—truly a melancholy experience" (Levin is the author, as you may guess) "has proved that deposit receipts are not in themselves a sufficient guarantee for the return of deposits—that is deposited money—we, the undersigned, actuated by unselfish zeal for the welfare of home industry, and desirous of giving greater security to the well-to-do public, have founded a bank, under the title of 'Deposit Guarantee Society Limited.' The novel and safe feature of the enterprise—and not everything new is safe—consists in the fact that the depositors instead of receiving deposit receipts, are given securities to the full value of the deposited sums, etc. etc." They do a brisk business, and you may imagine what sort of securities they issue instead of deposit receipts. Levin. Falk, with his keen eye for business, recognized at once the great advantage to be reaped from the services of a man with Levin's experience and colossal knowledge of people, acquired through his money-lending business. But to train him for all eventualities, and make him familiar with all the by-ways of the business, he felled him to the ground with his promissory note, and forced him into bankruptcy. Having done so, he appeared in the r�le of his saviour and made him his confidential clerk with[317] the title of secretary. And now Levin is installed in a little private office; but on no account is he permitted to show his face in the bank. Isaac Levi is employed in the same bank as cashier. He passed his examinations (with Latin, Greek and Hebrew) first class in all subjects. The Grey Bonnet, of course, reported his achievements. Now he is reading for the law, and doing a little business on his own account. He is like the eel; he has nine lives and lives on nothing. He takes no alcohol; he does not smoke; I don't know whether he has any vices, but he is formidable. He has an ironmongers shop at Hern�sand, a tobacconists at Helsingf�rs, and a fancy goods shop at S�dertelje; in addition he owns a few cottages at Stockholm, S. People say he is the coming man; I say the man has come. After the winding-up of the "Triton," his brother retired with a considerable fortune, I am told, and is now doing business privately. I heard that he proposed buying the forest monastery near Upsala, and rebuilding it in a new style invented by his uncle of the Academy of Arts. But his offer was refused. Levi, very much offended, sent a notice to the Grey Bonnet under the heading: "Persecution of the Jews in the Nineteenth Century." It won him the lively sympathy of the whole cultured public; the affair would win him a seat in Parliament if he cared for that distinction. A vote of thanks was presented to him by his co-religionists—(as if Levi had any religion) which was printed in the Grey Bonnet. They thanked him for standing up for the rights of the Jews (to buy the forest monastery). The address was handed to him at a banquet, to which also a great many Swedes (I always refer the Jewish question to its rightful domain, the ethnographical one) had been bidden, to feast on bad salmon and uncorked wine. The deeply moved hero of the day (vide Grey Bonnet) received on the same occasion a present of 20,000 crowns (in shares) for the foundation of a Home for Fallen Boys of the Evangelical Denomination.[318] I was present at the banquet, and saw a sight I had never seen before—I saw Isaac the worse for drink! He shouted that he hated me, and you, and Falk, and all "Whites"; he alternately called us "whites," and "natives," and roche; I had never heard the last word before, but no sooner had he uttered it than a large number of "blacks" crowded round us, looking so ominous that Isaac thought it better to take me into an adjoining room. There he poured out all his soul to me; he spoke of his sufferings as a schoolboy; of the ill-treatment to which master and school-fellows had subjected him, the daily knocks and cuffs from the street arabs. But what roused my indignation more than anything else was an incident which had happened to him during his military service; he was called up to the front at vespers and ordered to recite the Lord's Prayer. As he did not know it, he was scoffed and jeered at. His account made me change my opinion of him and his race. Religious swindle and charitable fraud are more rampant than ever, and make life in our country very unpleasant. You will remember two imps of Satan, Mrs. Falk and Mrs. Homan, the two pettiest, vainest and most malicious creatures who ever idled away their days. You know the cr�che they had founded and its end. Their latest achievement is a Home for Fallen Women, and the first inmate—received on my recommendation—was Marie! The poor girl had lent all her savings to a fellow who absconded with them. She was only too happy to find a home where she would be kept free of charge, and be able to retrieve her character. She told me that she did not mind all the religious palaver, which is, unfortunately, inseparable from an enterprise of this sort, as long as she could count on her cup of coffee in the morning. The Rev. Skore, whom you will no doubt remember, has not been made pastor primarius, and from sheer annoyance he is begging for funds to build a new church. Printed begging-letters, signed by all[319] the wealthiest magnates of Sweden, are sent out to appeal to the charitable public. The church, which is to be three times the size of the church on the Blasieholm and connected with a sky-high tower, is to be built on the old site of St. Catherine's. The latter is supposed to be too small to satisfy the great spiritual needs from which the Swedish nation is suffering at the moment, and is, therefore, to be pulled down. The sum collected has already reached such dimensions that a treasurer had to be appointed (with free lodging and fuel). Who do you think is the treasurer? You would never guess! Struve! Struve has become somewhat religious these days—I say somewhat, because it is not much—only just enough for his position, for he is patronized by the faithful. This does, however, not interfere with his journalism and his drinking. But his heart is not soft, on the contrary, he is most bitter against all those who have not come down; between you and me, he has very much deteriorated; therefore he hates you and Falk, and he has sworn to slate you next time you are heard of. He had to submit to the marriage ceremony for the sake of the free lodging and fuel. He was married to his wife in the White Mountains. I was one of the witnesses. His wife, too, has been converted, for she is under the impression that religion is good form. Lundell has left the religious sphere, and is painting nothing but portraits of directors; he has been made assistant at the Academy of Arts. He has also become immortal, for he has managed to smuggle a painting of his into the National Museum. It was accomplished by a very simple trick and ought to encourage imitators. Smith made a present to the National Museum of one of Lundell's genre pictures, a service which Lundell repaid by painting his portrait gratis! Splendid! Isn't it? The end of a romance. One Sunday morning, at the hour when the Sabbath peace is not disturbed by the terrible church bells, I was sitting in my room,[320] smoking. There was a knock at the door, and a tall, well-made man, whose face seemed familiar to me, entered—it was Rehnhjelm. We cross-examined each other. He is manager of a large factory and quite satisfied with his lot. Presently there was another knock. It was Falk. (More of him later on.) We revived old memories and discussed mutual friends. But by and by there was a pause, that strange silence which so frequently occurs after a lively conversation. Rehnhjelm took up a book, turned over the leaves and read out: "A C�sarean Operation: An academic treatise which, with the permission of the illustrious medical faculty, will be publicly discussed in the little lecture room of the University." What horrible diagrams! "Who in the world is the unfortunate being cursed thus to haunt the living after his death?" "You will find it on page 2," I said. He went on reading. "The pelvis which, as No. 38, is preserved in the pathological collection of the Academy...." No—that can't be it. "Agnes Rundgren, spinster...." The man's face turned as white as chalk. He got up and drank some water. "Did you know the woman?" I asked, in order to distract his thoughts. "Did I know her? She was on the stage, and I knew her at X-k�ping; after leaving X-k�ping, she was engaged in a Stockholm caf�, under the name of Beda Petterson." Then you should have seen Falk! It came to a scene which ended in Rehnhjelm's cursing all women, and Falk, greatly excited, replying, that there were two kinds of women, which differed from each other as much as angels and devils. He was so moved that Rehnhjelm's eyes filled with tears. And now to Falk! I purposely left him to the last. He is engaged to be married! How did it happen? He himself says: "We just met one another!" [321] As you know, I have no rigid opinions, but cultivate an open mind; but from what I have seen up to now, it is undeniable that love is something of which we bachelors know nothing—what we call love is nothing but frivolity. You may laugh if you like, you old scoffer! Only in very bad plays have I seen such a rapid development of character, as I had occasion to watch in Falk. You won't be surprised to hear that his engagement was not all plain sailing. The girl's father, an old widower, a selfish army pensioner, looked upon his daughter as an investment, hoping that she would marry well and thereby secure him a comfortable old age. (Nothing at all unusual!) He therefore bluntly refused his consent. You should have seen Falk! He called on the old man again and again; he was kicked out, and yet he called again and told the old egoist to the face that he would marry his daughter without his consent, if he continued to object. I am not sure, but I believe it actually came to fisticuffs. One evening Falk had accompanied his sweetheart home. They had both spent the evening at the house of one of the girl's relatives to whom Falk had introduced himself. When they turned the corner of the street in which the girl lives, they saw by the light of the street lamp that her father was leaning out of the window—he lives in a small house which belongs to him. Falk knocked at the garden gate; but nobody came to open it. At last he climbed over and was on the other side attacked by a large dog; he got the better of the brute and shut it up in the dust-bin. (Imagine the nervous Falk.) Then he compelled the porter to get up and open the gate. Now they had gained the yard and stood before the front door. He hammered it with a large stone, but no reply came from within; he searched the garden and found a ladder, by means of which he reached the old man's window. Open the door, he shouted, or I'll smash the window![322] "If you smash the window, you rascal," yelled the old man, "I'll shoot you!" Falk immediately smashed the window. For a few moments there was silence. Finally a voice came from within the fortress: "You are my man! I consent." "I'm not fond of smashing windows," explained Falk, "but there's nothing I would not do to win your daughter." The matter was settled, and they became engaged. I don't know whether you know that Parliament has carried through its reorganization of the public offices, doubling the salaries and the number of posts, so that a young man in the first division is now in a position to marry. Falk is going to be married in the autumn. His wife will keep her post at the school. I know next to nothing of the Woman's Question—it doesn't interest me—but I believe that our generation will get rid of the last remnant of the Eastern conception which still clings to marriage. In the days to come, husband and wife will enter into a partnership where both will retain their independence; they will not try to convert each other, but will mutually respect their weaknesses, and live together in a life-long friendship which will never be strained by the demands of one of the partners for amorous demonstrations. I look upon Mrs. Nicholas Falk, the charitable she-devil, as nothing more than a femme entretenue, and I am sure she does so herself. Most women marry for a home where they need not work—be their own mistress, as it is called. The fact that marriage is on the decline is as much the woman's fault as the man's. But I cannot make Falk out. He is studying numismatics with an almost unnatural zeal; he told me the other day that he was engaged in writing a text-book on numismatics, which he would endeavour to introduce into the schools where this science is to be taught. He never reads a paper; he does not know what is going on in the world, and he seems to have abandoned[323] the idea of writing. He lives only for his work and his fianc�e, whom he worships. But I don't trust his calm. Falk is a political fanatic, well aware that he would be consumed if he allowed the fire to burn freely; therefore he tries to stifle it with hard, monotonous work; but I don't think that he will succeed; in spite of all his restraint the day is bound to come when he will cast aside all self-control and burst out into fresh flames. Between you and me—I believe he belongs to one of those secret societies which are responsible for the reaction and militarism on the Continent. Not very long ago, at the reading of the King's Speech in Parliament, I saw him, dressed in a purple cloak, with a feather in his hat, sitting at the foot of the throne (at the foot of the throne!) and I thought—no, it would be a sin to say what I thought. But when the Prime Minister read his Majesty's gracious propositions respecting the state of the country and its needs, I saw a look in Falk's eyes which plainly said: What on earth does his Majesty know of the condition and needs of the country? That man, oh! that man! I conclude my review without having forgotten anybody. Enough for to-day. You shall soon hear from me again. <div style="text-align: right"> H. B. 1879. [324]</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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