The Red Room. August Strindberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "Sellén! Good morning, old chap!"

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

      "No! But are you living out here?"

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

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

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

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

      "What's he living on?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "Rehnhjelm?"

      "Yes; a very nice fellow."

      "He was acting as Lundell's model."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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