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

brought great changes. His powerful patron had died, and all memory of him was to be blotted out; even the memories of his kind actions were not to survive him. That Sellén’s stipend was stopped went without saying, especially as the artist could not bring himself to petition for its continuance. He did not believe that he required further assistance, after having been given a helping hand once, and, moreover, there were so many younger members of his profession in greater need of it.

But he was made to realize that not only was the sun extinguished but that the smaller planets, too, suffered from total eclipse. He had worked strenuously during the summer and had made great progress in his art, but nevertheless the president declared that it had deteriorated, and that his success in the spring had been nothing more than a stroke of luck; the professor of landscape-painting had told him as a friend that he would never be a great artist, and the academician had seized the opportunity to rehabilitate himself, and clung to his first opinion. In addition to this the public taste in pictures had changed; the ignorant wealthy handful of people who were in the habit of buying pictures and therefore set the fashion, did not want landscapes, but portraits of the watering-places and summer resorts they knew; and it was difficult to sell even these; the only demand was for sentimental genre-pictures and half-nude figures.

Therefore Sellén had fallen on evil days, for he could not bring himself to paint against his better judgment. He was now renting a former photographic studio on the top of a house in Government Street. The accommodation consisted of the studio itself, with its rotten floor and leaking roof⁠—the latter defect was not felt at present, for it was winter and the roof was covered with snow⁠—and the old darkroom which smelt of collodium, and for this reason could only be used as a wood- or coal-shed, when circumstances permitted the purchase of fuel. The only piece of furniture was a wooden garden seat, studded with protruding nails. It was so short that a man using it as a bed⁠—and it was always used as a bed when the owner, or rather the borrower, spent the night at home⁠—had either to draw his knees up to his chin, or allow his legs to dangle over the side. The bedding consisted of half a rug⁠—the other half was at the pawnbroker’s⁠—and a leather case, stuffed to bursting-point with studies and sketches.

In the darkroom was a water tap and a basin with a waste pipe⁠—the only substitute for a dressing-table.

On a cold afternoon, a short time before Christmas, Sellén was standing before his easel, painting for the third time a new picture on an old canvas. He had just risen from his hard bed; no servant had come in to light his fire⁠—partly because he had no servant, and partly because he had nothing with which to make a fire⁠—no servant had brushed his clothes or brought his coffee. And yet he was standing before his easel whistling merrily, engaged in painting a brilliant sunset, when there came four knocks at the door. Sellén opened without hesitation and admitted Olle Montanus, very plainly and very lightly clad, without an overcoat.

“Good morning, Olle! How are you? Did you sleep well?”

“Thanks.”

“How’s the cashbox?”

“Oh! Bad!”

“And the notes?”

“There are so few in circulation.”

“I see! They won’t issue any more? And the valuables?”

“There aren’t any.”

“Do you think it’s going to be a hard winter?”

“I saw a great many chatterers this morning; that means a hard winter.”

“You took a morning stroll?”

“I’ve walked about all night, after leaving the Red Room at midnight.”

“You were at the Red Room last night?”

“Yes; and I made two new acquaintances: Dr. Borg and a man called Levin.”

“Oh! Those rascals! I know them! Why didn’t you spend the night with them?”

“They turned up their noses at me because I had no overcoat, and I felt ashamed. But I am worn out; I’ll rest for a few moments on your sofa! I’ve walked through the whole town and round half of it; I must try and get work today at a stonemason’s or I shall starve.”

“Is it true that you are a member of the Workmen’s Union ‘Star of the North’?”

“Quite true; I’m going to lecture there on Sunday next, on Sweden.”

“A good subject! Plenty to say!”

“If I should fall asleep on your sofa, don’t waken me; I’m dead-beat.”

“All right, old chap! Go to sleep!”

A few moments later Olle was fast asleep and snoring loudly. His head was hanging over one of the side-railings which supported his thick neck, and his legs over the other.

“Poor devil!” muttered Sellén, covering him up with his rug.

There was another knock, but as it was unfamiliar Sellén judged it wise to take no notice of it; thereupon the clamour became so furious that it dissipated his apprehensions and he opened the door to Dr. Borg and Levin. Borg was the first to speak.

“Is Falk here?”

“No!”

“Who is that sack of wood over there?” continued Borg, pointing at Olle with his snow-boot.

“Olle Montanus.”

“Oh! That extraordinary fellow who was with Falk last night! Is he asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Did he spend the night here?”

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t you a fire? It’s beastly cold.”

“Because I have no wood.”

“Send for some then! Where’s the servant? I’ll make her trot.”

“Gone to early service.”

“Wake up that sleeping ox over there and send him!”

“No, let him sleep,” objected Sellén, covering up Olle, who was still snoring loudly.

“Then I must show you another way. What’s the floor-packing? Earth or rubbish?”

“I don’t understand these matters,” replied Sellén, carefully stepping on some sheets of cardboard which were lying on the floor.

“Have you got another piece of cardboard?”

“What are you driving at?” asked Sellén, colouring up to the roots of his hair.

“I want it, and a pair of fire-tongs.”

Sellén gave him the required articles, took his sketching stool and sat down on the pieces of cardboard as if he were guarding a treasure.

Borg took off his