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

“That’s true! He’s a nice chap; moreover, he has talent. There’s much originality in his verses; I have read some of them these last few evenings. But I’m afraid he’s not hard enough to get on in this world. He’s too sensitive, the rascal!”

“If he sees much of you, he’ll get over that. It’s outrageous how you spoilt that young Rehnhjelm in so short a time. I hear you are encouraging him to go on the stage.”

“Did he tell you that? The little devil! He’ll get on if he remains alive; but that’s not so simple when one has so little to eat! God’s death! I’ve no more paint! Can you spare any white? Merciful Lord! All the tubes are empty! You must give me some, Lundell!”

“I’ve no more than I want for myself⁠—and even if I had, I should take jolly good care not to give you any.”

“Stop talking nonsense! You know there’s no time to lose!”

“Seriously, I haven’t got your colours. If you weren’t so wasteful your tubes would go further.”

“I know that! Give me some money, then!”

“Money, indeed! That’s no go!”

“Get up, Olle! You must go and pawn something.”

At the word pawn Olle’s face brightened; he saw a prospect of food.

Sellén was searching the room.

“What’s this? A pair of boots! We’ll get twopence halfpenny on them; they’d better be sold.”

“They’re Rehnhjelm’s! You can’t take them,” objected Lundell, who had meant to put them on in the afternoon when he was going up to town. “Surely you aren’t going to take liberties with other people’s property!”

“Why not? He’ll be getting money for them. What’s in this parcel? A velvet waistcoat! A beauty! I shall keep it for myself and then Olle can pawn mine. Collars and cuffs? Oh! paper! A pair of socks! Here, Olle, twopence halfpenny! Wrap them in the waistcoat! You can sell the empty bottles⁠—I think the best thing would be to sell everything.”

“Do you mean to say you are going to sell other people’s belongings? Have you no sense of right and wrong?” interrupted Lundell again, hoping to gain possession of the parcel which had long tempted him, by means of persuasion.

“He’ll get paid for it later on! But it isn’t enough yet. We must take the sheets off the bed. Why not? We don’t want any sheets! Here, Olle, cram them in!”

Olle very skilfully made a bag of one of the sheets and stuffed everything into it, while Lundell went on eagerly protesting.

When the parcel was made, Olle took it under his arm, buttoned his ragged coat so as to hide the absence of a waistcoat, and set out on his way to the town.

“He looks like a thief,” said Sellén, watching him from the window with a sly smile. “I hope the police won’t interfere with him! Hurry up, Olle!” he shouted after the retreating figure. “Buy six French rolls and two half-pints of beer if there’s anything over after you’ve bought the paint.”

Olle turned round and waved his hat with as much assurance as if he had the feast already safely in his pockets.

Lundell and Sellén were alone. Sellén was admiring his new velvet waistcoat for which Lundell had nursed a secret passion for a long time. He scraped his palette and cast envious glances at the lost glory. But it was something else he was trying to speak of; something else, which was very difficult to mention.

“I wish you’d look at my picture,” he said at last. “What do you think of it, seriously?”

“Don’t draw and slave at it so much! Paint! Where does the light come from? From the clothes, from the flesh! It’s crazy! What do these people breathe? Colour! Turpentine! I see no air!”

“Well,” said Lundell, “tastes differ, as you said just now. What do you think of the composition?”

“Too many people!”

“You’re awful! I want more, not fewer.”

“Let me see! There’s one great mistake in it.”

Sellén shot a long glance at the picture, a glance peculiar to the inhabitants of seacoasts and plains.

“Yes, you’re right,” agreed Lundell. “You can see it then?”

“There are only men in your picture. It’s somewhat monotonous.”

“That’s it! But fancy, that you should see that!”

“You want a woman then?”

Lundell looked at him, wondering whether he was joking, but was unable to settle the point, for Sellén was whistling.

“Yes, I want a female figure,” he replied at last.

There was silence, and gradually the silence became uncomfortable: two very old acquaintances in a tête-à-tête conversation.

“I wish I knew where to get a model from! I don’t want the Academy models, the whole world knows them, and, besides, the subject is a religious one.”

“You want something better? I understand! If it were not for the nude, I might perhaps.⁠ ⁠…”

“It isn’t for the nude! Are you mad? Among all those men⁠ ⁠… besides, it’s a religious subject.”

“Yes, yes, we know all that. She must be dressed in something Oriental, and bend down as if she were picking up something, show her shoulders, her neck, and the first vertebra, I understand. Religious like the Magdalene! Bird’s-eye view!”

“You scoff and jeer at everything!”

“Let’s keep to the point! You shall have your model, for it’s impossible to paint without one. You, yourself, don’t know one. Very well! Your religious principles don’t allow you to look for one; therefore Rehnhjelm and I, the two black sheep, will find you one.”

“But it must be a respectable girl, don’t forget that.”

“Of course! We will see what we can do, the day after tomorrow, when we shall be in funds.”

And they went on painting, quietly, diligently, until four⁠—until five. Every now and then their anxious glances swept the road. Sellén was the first to break the uneasy silence.

“Olle is a long time! Something must have happened to him,” he said.

“Yes, something must be up. But why do you always send the poor devil? Why can’t you run your own errands?”

“He’s nothing else to do, and he likes going.”

“How d’you know? And besides, let me tell you, nobody can say how Olle’s going