Читать книгу The Red Room - August Strindberg - Страница 9

"What do you mean by adequate? I cannot recollect that Aristotle made use of that word in his Metaphysics."

Absolute silence fell on the room; everybody felt that a fight between the artist's colony and the University of Upsala was imminent. The interval was longer than was desirable, for Ygberg was unacquainted with Aristotle and would have died sooner than have admitted it. As he was not quick at repartee, he failed to discover the breach which Falk had left open; but Olle did, caught Aristotle with both hands and flung him back at his opponent.

"Although I'm not a learned man, I venture to question whether you, Mr. Falk, have upset your opponent's argument? In my opinion adequate may be used and accepted as a definition in a logical conclusion, in spite of Aristotle not having mentioned the word in his Metaphysics. Am I right, gentlemen? I don't know, I'm not a learned man and Mr. Falk has made a study of these things."

He had spoken with half-closed eyelids; now he closed them entirely and looked impudently shy.

There was a general murmur of "Olle is right."

Falk realized that this was a matter to be handled without mittens, if the honour of Upsala was to be safeguarded; he made a pass with the philosophical pack of cards and threw up an ace.

"Mr. Montanus has denied the antecedent or said simply: nego majorem! Very well! I, on my part, declare that he has been guilty of a posterius prius; when he found himself on the horns of a dilemma he went astray and made a syllogism after ferioque instead of barbara. He has forgotten the golden rule: Cæsare camestres festino baroco secundo; and therefore his conclusion became weakened. Am I right gentlemen?"

"Quite right, absolutely right," replied everybody, except the two philosophers who had never held a book of logic in their hands.

Ygberg looked as if he had bitten on a nail, and Olle grinned as if a handful of snuff had been thrown into his eyes; but his native shrewdness had discovered the tactical method of his opponent. He resolved not to stick to the point, but to talk of something else. He brought out everything he had learned and everything he had heard, beginning with the Criticism of Fichte's Philosophy to which Falk had been listening a little while ago from behind the fence. The discussion went on until the morning was nearly spent.

In the meantime Lundell went on painting, his foul pipe snoring loudly. The model had fallen asleep on the broken chair, his head sinking deeper and deeper until, about noon, it hung between his knees; a mathematician could have calculated the time when it would reach the centre of the earth.

Sellén was sitting at the open window enjoying himself; but poor Falk, who had been under the impression that this terrible philosophy was a thing of the past, was compelled to continue throwing fistfuls of philosophic snuff into the eyes of his antagonists. The torture would never have come to an end if the model's centre of gravity had not gradually shifted to one of the most delicate parts of the chair; it gave way and the Baron fell on the floor. Lundell seized the opportunity to inveigh against the vice of drunkenness and its miserable consequences for the victim as well as for others; by others he meant, of course, himself.

Falk, anxious to come to the assistance of the embarrassed youth, eagerly asked a question bound to be of general interest.

"Where are the gentlemen going to dine?"

The room grew silent, so silent that the buzzing of the flies was plainly audible; Falk was quite unconscious of the fact that he had stepped on five corns at one and the same moment. It was Lundell who broke the silence. He and Rehnhjelm were going to dine at the "Sauce-Pan," their usual restaurant, for they had credit there; Sellén objected to the place because he did not like the cooking, and had not yet decided on another establishment; he looked at the model with an anxious, inquiring glance. Ygberg and Montanus were too "busy" and "not going to cut up their working-day" by "dressing and going up to town." They were going to get something out here, but they did not say what.

A general dressing began, principally consisting of a wash at the old garden-pump. Sellén, who was a dandy, had hidden a parcel wrapped in a newspaper underneath the bed-sofa, from which he produced collar, cuffs and shirt-front, made of paper. He knelt for a long time before the pump, gazing into the trough, while he put on a brownish-green tie, a present from a lady, and arranged his hair in a particular style.

When he had rubbed his shoes with a bur leaf, brushed his hat with his coat sleeve, put a grape-hyacinth in his buttonhole and seized his cinnamon cane, he was ready to go. To his question whether Rehnhjelm would be ready soon, Lundell replied that he would be hours yet, as he required his assistance in drawing; Lundell always devoted the time from twelve to two to drawing. Rehnhjelm submitted and obeyed, although he found it hard to part with Sellén, of whom he was fond, and stay with Lundell whom he disliked.

"We shall meet to-night at the Red Room," said Sellén, comforting him, and all agreed, even the philosophers and the moral Lundell.

On their way to town Sellén initiated his friend Falk into some of the secrets of the colonists. As for himself, he had broken with the Academy, because his views on art differed from theirs; he knew that he had talent and would eventually be successful, although success might be long in coming. It was, of course, frightfully difficult to make a name without the Royal Medal. There were also natural obstacles in his way. He was a native of the barren coast of Halland and loved grandeur and simplicity; but critics and public demanded detail and trifles; therefore his pictures did not sell; he could have painted what everybody else painted, but he scorned to do so.

Lundell, on the other hand, was a practical man—Sellén always pronounced the word practical with a certain contempt—he painted to please the public. He never suffered from indisposition; it was true he had left the Academy, but for secret, practical reasons; moreover, in spite of his assertion, he had not broken with it entirely. He made a good income out of his illustrations for magazines and, although he had little talent, he was bound to make his fortune some day, not only because of the number of his connexions, but also because of his intrigues. It was Montanus who had put him up to those; he was the originator of more than one plan which Lundell had successfully carried out. Montanus was a genius, although he was terribly unpractical.

Rehnhjelm was a native of Norrland. His father had been a wealthy man; he had owned a large estate which was now the property of his former inspector. The old aristocrat was comparatively poor; he hoped that his son would learn a lesson from the past, take an inspector's post and eventually restore the family to its former position by the acquisition of a new estate. Buoyed up with this hope, he had sent him to the Commercial School to study agricultural book-keeping, an accomplishment which the youth detested. He was a good fellow but a little weak, and allowing himself to be influenced by Lundell, who did not scorn to take the fee for his preaching and patronage in natura.

In the meantime Lundell and the Baron had started work; the Baron was drawing, while the master lay on the sofa, supervising the work, in other words, smoking.

"If you'll put your back into your work, you shall come to dinner with me at the 'Brass-Button,'" promised Lundell, feeling rich with the two crowns which he had saved from destruction.

Ygberg and Montanus had sauntered up the wooded eminence, intending to sleep away the dinner hour; Olle beamed after his victories, but Ygberg was depressed; his pupil had surpassed him. Moreover, his feet were cold and he was unusually hungry, for the eager discussion of dinner had awakened in him slumbering feelings successfully suppressed for the last twelve months. They threw themselves under a pine tree; Ygberg hid the precious, carefully wrapped up book, which he always refused to lend to Olle, under his head, and stretched himself full-length on the ground; he looked deadly pale, cold and calm like a corpse which has abandoned all hope of resurrection. He watched some little birds above his head picking at the pine seed and letting the husks fall down on him; he watched a cow, the picture of robust health, grazing among the alders; he saw the smoke rising from the gardener's kitchen chimney.

"Are you hungry, Olle?" he asked in a feeble voice.

"No!" replied Olle, casting covetous looks at the wonderful book.

"Oh! to be a cow!" sighed Ygberg, crossing his hands on his chest and giving himself up to all-merciful sleep.

When his low breathing had become regular, the waking friend gently pulled the book from its hiding-place, without disturbing the sleeper; then he turned over and lying on his stomach he began to devour the precious contents, forgetting all about the "Sauce-Pan" and the "Brass-Button."