“Tell me of a Swedish poem, a work of art, a piece of music, so specifically Swedish that it differs from all other not-Swedish ones! Show me a Swedish building! There isn’t one, and if there were, it would either be bad architecture or built in a foreign style.
“I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I maintain that the Swedish nation is a stupid, conceited, slavish, envious, and uncouth nation. And for this reason it is approaching its end, and approaching it with giant strides.”
A tumult arose in the hall, but shouts of “Charles XII” could be heard above the turmoil.
“Gentlemen, Charles XII is dead; let him sleep until his next jubilee. To no one are we more indebted for our denationalisation than to him, and therefore, gentlemen, I call for three cheers for Charles XII! Gentlemen, long live Charles XII!”
“I call the meeting to order!” shouted the chairman.
“Is it possible to imagine that a nation can be guilty of a greater piece of folly than to go to foreign nations in order to learn to write poetry?
“What unsurpassable oxen they must have been to walk for sixteen hundred years behind the plough and never conceive the idea of inventing a song!
“Then a jolly fellow of the court of Charles XII came along and destroyed the whole work of denationalization. The literary language, which up to now had been German, was henceforth to be Swedish: Down with the dog Stjernhjelm!
“What was his name? Edward Stjernström!”
The chairman’s hammer came down on the table with a bang. The disturbance grew. “Stop him! Down with the traitor! He’s laughing at us!”
“The Swedish nation can scream and brawl, I am aware of that! They can do nothing else! And as you will not allow me to continue my lecture and discuss the government and the royal copyholds, I will conclude by saying that the servile louts whom I have heard tonight are ripe for the autocracy which they are sure to get. Believe my words: You will have an absolute monarchy before very long!”
A push from the back jerked the words of the speaker out of his throat. He clung to the table:
“And an ungrateful race who will not listen to the truth. …”
“Kick him out! Tear him to pieces!”
Olle was dragged from the platform; but to the last moment, while knocks and blows rained down on him, he yelled like a madman: “Long live Charles XII! Down with George Stjernhjelm!”
At last Olle and Arvid were standing in the street.
“Whatever were you thinking of?” asked Falk. “You must have taken leave of your senses!”
“I believe I had! I had learnt my speech by heart for the last six weeks; I knew to a word what I was going to say; but when I stood on the platform and saw all those eyes gazing at me, it all went to pieces; my artificial arguments broke down like a scaffolding; the floor underneath my feet gave way, and my thoughts became confusion. Was it very crazy?”
“Yes, it was bad, and the papers will pull you to pieces.”
“That’s a pity, I admit. I thought I was making it all so clear. But it was fun to give it them for once.”
“You only injured your cause; they’ll never let you speak again.”
Olle sighed.
“Why in the name of fortune couldn’t you leave Charles XII alone? That was your worst mistake.”
“Don’t ask me! I don’t know!”
“Do you still love the working man?” asked Falk.
“I pity him for allowing himself to be humbugged by adventurers, and I shall never abandon his cause, for his cause is the burning question of the near future, and all your politics aren’t worth a penny in comparison.”
The two friends were making their way back to old Stockholm, and finally entered a café.
It was between nine and ten and the room was almost empty. A single customer was sitting near the counter. He was reading from a book to a girl who sat beside him doing needlework. It was a pretty, domestic scene, but it seemed to make a strong impression on Falk, who started violently and changed colour.
“Sellén! You here? Good evening, Beda!” he said, with artificial cordiality which sat strangely on him, shaking hands with the girl.
“Hallo! Falk, old chap!” said Sellén. “So you are in the habit of coming here too? I might have guessed it, you are hardly ever at the Red Room now.”
Arvid and Beda exchanged glances. The young girl looked too distinguished for her position; she had a delicate, intelligent face, which betrayed a secret sorrow; and a slender figure. Her movements were full of self-confidence and modesty; her eyes were set in her face at a slightly upward angle; they seemed to be peering skyward as if they were anticipating evil to drop down from the clouds; with this exception they looked as if they were ready to play all the games which the whim of the moment might dictate.
“How grave you are,” she said to Arvid, and her gaze dropped to her sewing.
“I’ve been to a grave meeting,” said Arvid, blushing like a girl. “What were you reading?”
“I was reading the Dedication from Faust,” said Sellén, stretching out his hand and playing with Beda’s needlework.
A cloud darkened Arvid’s face. The conversation became forced and restrained. Olle sat plunged in meditations, the subject of which must have been suicide.
Arvid asked for a paper and was given the Incorruptible. He remembered that he had forgotten to look for the review of his poems. He hastily opened the paper and on page
