Vox Populi
This little village is the most conventional in the world. When, as it sometimes happens, an artist in presenting to the world the product of his imagination ventures to overstep the prescribed bounds of convention, thereby desecrating the gifts a kind Providence has bestowed upon him, not only are the people filled with a spirit of righteous indignation, but the little dogs become indignant as well.
This I observed but yesterday.
The clock struck three as, wearied by hours of labored research within its cool walls, I stepped out of the library, laden with ponderous tomes so learned that none would be able to recognize even the titles, though I should name them.
Without was the blessed warmth of a summer’s day. At once I turned aside into the lane under the great green trees; whence chance led me at length to the summit of that eminence where the Father of the Ages, silent and immovable, sits dreaming, the man-child asleep on his knee.
On the bench before this little group in bronze, I sank exhausted. Throwing my books to the left and to the right, I lighted a cigarette, and halfway closed my eyes. I have observed that one is able to view the world more synthetically when one looks upon it with half closed eyes; all lines become more simple and cleancut, all confusing gradations of shade are eliminated, while figures glide back and forth over the scene as silhouettes in separate planes. Doubly fortunate it was that at that moment I was sitting thus with half closed eyes, when two frightfully hideous old women came past, leading a little black dog by a string.
Now the situation is this: there in the background the Father of the Ages sits dreaming his age old dream of generations to come, dreaming of them—he is certainly mistaken—everything that is beautiful and good: here, in the seat of the observer, I wait, while in procession between us pass two frightfully hideous old women, forward from left to right, leading between them a little black dog by a string. The Father of the Ages, as everyone knows, is a highly unconventional creation of the sculptor’s art. I remind you of this, lest you have forgotten: it is a part of the story.
It is before this great bronze statue that these two frightfully hideous old women now stop, giving vent to their opinions about art. I cannot hear their words, but the vehement nodding of their heads and the excitable movements of their greenish black parasols, aloft in the air, give evidence that they regard the matter rather from a moral than an esthetic point of view; and their judgement of this subject becomes one of positive disapproval.
In the meantime the little dog runs here and there, as far as his string will allow. Finally he becomes aware that a matter of great importance claims the attention of his mistresses, a matter which consequently becomes of great interest to him as well. It proves to be nothing less than the very bronze statue which rises there before us on the grassy carpet. He, then, sits primly upright on his haunches, his ears pricked and his nose upturned, attentively listening to the two frightfully ugly old women; and soon he, no less than I, apprehends by the aid of the nodding heads and frenzied gesticulations of greenish black parasols that the group in bronze is the object of their spirited disapproval. It follows, then, in the natural order of things, that he is immediately possessed by an unquenchable hatred toward this group: otherwise he would be, indeed, a very inferior dog.
“Er‑ror,” he growls, and rushes at the group in bronze with such unmistakable fury that the old women become frightened and are silenced at once. “Er‑ror—Er‑ror—Er‑ror—”
The scene becomes suddenly animated: on one side the little dog with frothing mouth and eyes shining wide with mingled loyalty and hatred makes spring upon spring against his new and deadly enemy. “Er‑ror—Er‑ror—Er‑ror—,” he snarls; on the other side there are two pale, lean, black-clothed, frightfully hideous old women who pull and tug at his string, and slowly, inch by inch, succeed in moving themselves and the little dog, until finally they pass to the left, disappearing out of the line of vision.
“Error!” yelps the little dog once more, and disappears. Therewith he is out of the story—but the story is not ended.
Everybody knows that when one little dog begins to bark it is an invitation for all the little dogs in the neighborhood immediately to join in. Now, Humlegården is full of young and playful little dogs that roll about on the grassy carpet and spend their days in innocent diversion, prepared at any time when occasion demands to rush up at once, crying, “Error—Er‑ror Er‑ror—!”
“Hear that barking,” say these little dogs, one to another, “now we too must take a part.” And here they come, rushing from every direction: from the Library Fount, from Linné’s Statue, and all the way from Scheele’s Knoll, until finally they reach the statue, The Father of the Ages, where they bark in chorus, “Er‑ror—Er‑ror—Er‑ror—!”
I hear them barking still.
