His eyes met neither compliments nor abuse; the article was dictated by genuine and deep interest. The reviewer found Arvid’s poetry neither better nor worse than the average, but just as selfish and meaningless; he said that it treated only of the poet’s private affairs, of illicit relations, real or fictitious; that it coquetted with little sins, but did not mourn over great ones; that it was no better than the English fashion-paper poetry, and he suggested that the author’s portrait should have preceded the title-page; then the poems would have been illustrated.
These simple truths made a great impression on Arvid; he had only read the advertisement in the Grey Bonnet, written by Struve, and the review in the Red Cap, coloured by personal friendship. He rose with a brief good night.
“Are you going already?” asked Beda.
“Yes; are we going to meet tomorrow?”
“Yes, as usual. Good night.”
Sellén and Olle followed him.
“She’s a rare child,” said Sellén, after they had proceeded a little way in silence.
“I should thank you to be a little more restrained in your criticism.”
“I see. You’re in love with her!”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not in the least. I shan’t get into your way!”
“And I beg you not to believe any evil of her. …”
“Of course I won’t! She’s been on the stage. …”
“How do you know? She never told me that!”
“No, but she told me; one can never trust these little devils too far.”
“Oh well! there’s no harm in that! I shall take her away from her surroundings as soon as I possibly can. Our relations are limited to meeting in the Haga Park at eight in the morning and drinking the water from the well.”
“How sweet and simple! Do you never take her out to supper?”
“I never thought of making such an improper suggestion; she would refuse it with scorn. You are laughing! Laugh if you like! I still have faith in a woman who loves whatever class she may belong to, and whatever her past may have been. She told me that her life had not been above reproach, but I have promised never to ask her about her past.”
“Is it serious then?”
“Yes, it is serious.”
“That’s another thing; Good night, Falk! Are you coming with me, Olle?”
“Good night.”
“Poor Falk!” said Sellén to Olle. “Now it’s his turn to go through the mill. But there’s no help for it; it’s like changing one’s teeth; a man is not grown up until he has had his experience.”
“What about the girl?” asked Olle, merely in order to show a polite interest, for his thoughts were elsewhere.
“She’s all right in her way, but Falk takes the matter seriously; she does too, apparently, as long as she sees any prospect of winning him; but unless Falk’s quick about it, she will grow tired of waiting, and who knows whether she won’t amuse herself meanwhile with somebody else? No, you don’t understand these things; a man shouldn’t hesitate in a love-affair, but grab with both hands; otherwise somebody else will step in and spoil the game. Have you ever been in love, Olle?”
“I had an affair with one of our servants at home; there were consequences, and my father turned me out of the house. Since then I haven’t looked at a woman.”
“That was nothing very complicated. But to be betrayed, as it is called, that’s what hurts, I can tell you! One must have nerves like the strings of a violin to play that game. We shall see what sort of a fight Falk will make; with some men it goes very deep, and that’s a pity.
“The door is open, come in Olle! I hope the beds are properly made, so that you will lie softly; but you must excuse my old bed-maker, she cannot shake up the featherbeds; her fingers are weak, don’t you see, and the pillow, I’m afraid, may be hard and lumpy.”
They had climbed the stairs and were entering the studio.
“It smells damp, as if the servant had aired the room or scrubbed it.”
“You are laughing at yourself! There can be no more scrubbing, you have no longer a floor.”
“Haven’t I? Ah! That makes a difference! But what has become of it? Has it been used for fuel? There’s nothing for it then, but to lie down on our mother earth, or rubbish, or whatever it may be.”
They lay down in their clothes on the floor-packing, having made a kind of bed for themselves of pieces of canvas and old newspapers, and pushed cases filled with sketches underneath their heads. Olle struck a match, produced a tallow candle from his trousers pocket and put it on the floor beside him. A faint gleam flickered through the huge, bare studio, passionately resisting the volumes of darkness which tried to pour in through the colossal windows.
“It’s cold tonight,” said Olle, opening a greasy book.
“Cold! Oh no! There are only twenty degrees of frost outside, and thirty in here because we are so high up. What’s the time, I wonder?”
“I believe St. John’s just struck one.”
“St. John’s? They have no clock! They are so poor that they had to pawn it.”
There was a long pause which was finally broken by Sellén.
“What are you reading, Olle?”
“Never mind!”
“Never mind? Hadn’t you better be more civil, seeing that you are my guest?”
“An old cookery book which I borrowed from Ygberg.”
“The deuce you did! Do let’s read it; I’ve only had a cup of coffee and three glasses of water today.”
“What would you like?” asked Olle, turning over the leaves. “Would you like some fish? Do you know what a mayonnaise is?”
“Mayonnaise? No! Read it! It sounds good!”
“Well, listen! No. 139. Mayonnaise: Take some butter, flour, and a pinch of English mustard, and make it into a smooth paste. Beat it up with good stock, and when boiling add the yolks of a few eggs; beat well and let it stand to cool.”
“No, thank you; that’s not filling enough. …”
“Oh, but that’s not all. Then take a few spoonfuls of fine
