The Red Room - August Strindberg (best summer reads TXT) 📗

this voice was silenced by another, which came from the region of his empty stomach, and was accompanied by a gnawing, stinging sensation. He drank a glass of water and smoked another pipe. But his discomfort increased. His thoughts became more gloomy; he found his room uncomfortable, the morning dull and monotonous; he was tired and despondent; everything seemed repulsive; his ideas were spiritless and revolved round nothing but unpleasant subjects; and still his discomfort grew. He wondered whether he was hungry? It was one o’clock. He never dined before three. He anxiously examined his purse. Threepence halfpenny! For the first time in his life he would have to go without dinner! This was a trouble hitherto unknown to him. But with threepence halfpenny there was no necessity to starve. He could send for bread and beer. No! That would not do; it was infra dig. Go to a dairy? No! Borrow? Impossible! He knew nobody who would lend. No sooner had he realized this than hunger began to rage in him like a wild beast let loose, biting him, tearing him and chasing him round the room. He smoked pipe after pipe to stupefy the monster; in vain.

A rolling of drums from the barracks yard told him that the guardsmen were lining up with their copper vessels to receive their dinner; every chimney was smoking; the dinner bell went in the dockyard; a hissing sound came from his neighbour’s, the policemen’s kitchen; the smell of roast meat penetrated through the chinks of the door; he heard the rattling of knives and plates in the adjacent room, and the children saying grace. The paviours in the street below were taking their after-dinner nap with their heads on their empty food baskets. The whole town was dining; everybody, except he. He raged against God. But all at once a clear thought shot through his brain. He seized Ulrica Eleonora and the guardian angel, wrapped them in paper, wrote Smith’s name and address on the parcel, and handed the messenger his threepence halfpenny. And with a sigh of relief he threw himself on his sofa and starved, with a heart bursting with pride.

VI The Red Room

The same afternoon sun which had witnessed Arvid Falk’s defeat in his first battle with hunger shone serenely into the cottage of the artists’ colony, where Sellén, in shirt sleeves, was standing before his easel working at his picture which had to be in the Exhibition on the following morning before ten, finished, framed, and varnished. Olle Montanus sat on the bed-sofa reading the wonderful book lent to him by Ygberg for a day in exchange for his muffler; betweenwhiles he cast a look of admiration at Sellén’s picture. He had great faith in Sellén’s talent. Lundell was calmly working at his Descent from the Cross; he had already sent three pictures to the Exhibition and, like many others, he was awaiting their sale with a certain amount of excitement.

“It’s fine, Sellén,” said Olle, “you paint divinely.”

“May I look at your spinach?” asked Lundell, who never admired anything, on principle.

The subject was simple and grand. The picture represented a stretch of drifting sand on the coast of Halland with the sea in the background; it was full of the feeling of autumn; sunbeams were breaking through riven clouds; the foreground was partly drift sand and newly washed-up seaweed, dripping wet and lit by the sun; in the middle distance lay the sea, with huge crested waves⁠—the greater part in deep shadow; but in the background, on the horizon, the sun was shining, opening up a perspective into infinity; the only figures were a flock of birds.

No unperverted mind who had the courage to face the mysterious wealth of solitude, had seen promising harvests choked by the drifting sand, could fail to understand the picture. It was painted with inspiration and talent; the colouring was the result of the prevailing mood, the mood was not engendered by the colouring.

“You must have something in the foreground,” persisted Lundell. “Take my advice.”

“Rubbish!” replied Sellén.

“Do what I tell you, and don’t be a fool, otherwise you won’t sell. Paint in a figure; a girl by preference; I’ll help you if you don’t know how to do it. Look here.⁠ ⁠…”

“None of your tricks! What’s the good of petticoats in a high wind? You’re mad on petticoats!”

“Very well, do as you like,” replied Lundell, a little hurt by the reference to one of his weakest points. “But instead of those grey gulls you should have painted storks. Nobody can tell what sort of birds these are. Picture the red storks’ legs against the dark cloud! What a contrast!”

“You don’t understand!”

Sellén was not clever in stating his motives, but he was sure of his points and his sound instincts led him safely past all errors.

“You won’t sell,” Lundell began again; his friend’s financial position worried him.

“Well, I shall live somehow in spite of it. Have I ever sold anything? Am I the worse for it? Do you think I don’t know that I should sell if I painted like everybody else? Do you think I can’t paint as badly as everybody else? I just don’t want to!”

“But you ought to think of paying your debts! You owe Mr. Lund of the Sauce-Pan several hundred crowns.”

“Well, that won’t ruin him. Moreover I gave him a picture worth twice that amount.”

“You are the most selfish man I ever met! The picture wasn’t worth twenty crowns.”

“I value it at five hundred, as prices go! But unfortunately inclinations and tastes differ here below. I find your Crucifixion an execrable performance, you find it beautiful. Nobody can blame you for it. Tastes differ!”

“But you spoilt our credit at the Sauce-Pan. Mr. Lund refused to give me credit yesterday, and I don’t know how I’m to get a dinner today.”

“What does it matter? Do without it! I haven’t had a dinner these last two years.”

“You plundered Mr. Falk the other day, when he