The Red Room August Strindberg (best english novels to read txt) 📖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV Master and Dogs

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

As she lay there