Married

He fetches butter and cheese, cuts two very thin slices of rye-bread, and places them on the schoolmaster’s table. The latter has in the meantime searched the verandah for the evening papers, but has only found the official Post. To make up for this very poor success, he takes the Daily Journal, which he had not had time to finish at lunch, and after first opening and refolding the Post, and putting it on the top of the bread basket on his left, sits down to read it. He ornaments the rye-bread with geometrical butter hieroglyphics, cuts off a piece of cheese in the shape of a rectangle, fills his liqueur glass three quarters full and raises it to his lips, hesitates as if the little glass contained physic, throws back his head and says: Ugh!

He has done this for twelve years and will continue doing it until the day of his death.

As soon as the crabs, six of them, have been put before him, he examines them as to their sex, and everything being as it should be, makes ready to enjoy himself. He tucks a corner of his dinner napkin into his collar, places two slices of thin bread and cheese by the side of his plate and pours out a glass of beer and half a glass of liqueur. Then he takes the little crab-knife and business begins. He is the only man in Sweden who knows how to eat a crab, and whenever he sees anybody else engaged in the same pursuit, he tells him that he has no idea how to do it. He makes an incision all round the head, and a hole against which he presses his lips and begins to suck.

“This,” he says, “is the best part of the whole animal.”

He severs the thorax from the lower part, puts his teeth to the body and drinks deep draughts; he sucks the little legs as if they were asparagus, eats a bit of dill, and takes a drink of beer and a mouthful of rye-bread. When he has carefully taken the shell off the claws and sucked even the tiniest tubes, he eats the flesh; last of all he attacks the lower part of the body. When he has eaten three crabs, he drinks half a glass of liqueur and reads the promotions in the Post.

He has done this for twelve years and will continue doing it until he dies.

He was just twenty years old when he first began to patronise the restaurant, now he is thirty-two, and Gustav has been a waiter for ten years in the same place. Not one of its frequenters has known the restaurant longer than the school-master, not even the proprietor who took it over eight years ago. He has watched generations of diners come and go; some came for a year, some for two, some for five years; then they disappeared, went to another restaurant, left the town or got married. He feels very old, although he is only thirty-two! The restaurant is his home, for his furnished room is nothing but the place where he sleeps.

It is ten o’clock. He leaves his table and goes to the back room where his grog awaits him. This is the time when the bookseller arrives. They play a game of chess or talk about books. At half-past ten the second violin from the Dramatic Theatre drops in. He is an old Pole who, after 1864, escaped to Sweden, and now makes a living by his former hobby. Both the Pole and the bookseller are over fifty, but they get on with the schoolmaster as if he were a contemporary.

The proprietor has his place behind the counter. He is an old sea captain who fell in love with the proprietress and married her. She rules in the kitchen, but the sliding panel is always open, so that she can keep an eye on the old man, lest he should take a glass too much before closing time. Not until the gas has been turned out, and the old man is ready to go to bed, is he allowed a nightcap in the shape of a stiff glass of rum and water.

At eleven o’clock the young bloods begin to arrive; they approach the counter diffidently and ask the proprietor in a whisper whether any of the private rooms upstairs are disengaged, and then there is a rustling of skirts in the hall and cautious footsteps are creeping upstairs.

“Well,” says the bookseller, who has suddenly found a topic of conversation, “when are you going to be married, Blom, old man?”

“I haven’t the means to get married,” answered the school-master. “Why don’t you take a wife to your bosom yourself?”

“No woman would have me, now that my head looks like an old, leather-covered trunk,” says the bookseller. “And, moreover, there’s my old Stafva, you know.”

Stafva was a legendary person in whom nobody believed. She was the incarnation of the bookseller’s unrealised dreams.

“But you, Mr. Potocki?” suggested the schoolmaster.

“He’s been married once, that’s enough,” replies the bookseller.

The Pole nods his head like a metrometer.

“Yes, I was married very happily. Ugh!” he says and finishes his grog.

“Well,” continues the schoolmaster, “if women weren’t such fools, one might consider the matter; but they are infernal fools.”

The Pole nods again and smiles; being a Pole, he doesn’t understand what the word fool means.

“I have been married very happily, ugh!”

“And then there is the noise of the children, and children’s clothes always drying near the stove; and servants, and all day long the smells from the kitchen. No, thank you! And, perhaps, sleepless nights into the bargain.”

“Ugh!” added the Pole, completing the sentence.

“Mr. Potocki says ‘ugh’ with the malice of the bachelor who listens to the complaints of the married man,” remarked the bookseller.

“What did I say?” asks the astonished widower. “Ugh!” says the bookseller, mimicking him, and the conversation degenerates into a universal grinning and a cloud of tobacco smoke.

It is midnight. The piano upstairs, which has accompanied a mixed choir of male and female voices, is silent. The waiter has finished his countless journeys from the speaking tube to the verandah; the proprietor enters into his daybook the last few bottles of champagne which have been ordered upstairs. The three friends rise from their chairs and go home, two to their “virgin couches,” and the bookseller to his Stafva.

When schoolmaster Blom had reached his twentieth year, he was compelled to interrupt his studies at Upsala and accept a post as assistant teacher at Stockholm. As he, in addition, gave private lessons, he made quite a good income. He did not ask much of life. All he wanted was peace and cleanliness. An elderly lady let him a furnished room and there he found more than a bachelor finds as a rule. She looked after him and was kind to him; she gave him all the tenderness which nature had intended her to bestow on the new generation that was to spring from her. She mended his clothes and looked after him generally. He had lost his mother when he was a little boy and had never been accustomed to gratuitous kindness; therefore he was inclined to look upon her services as an interference with his liberty, but he accepted them nevertheless. But all the same the public house was his real home. There he paid for everything and ran up no bills.

He was born in a small town in the interior of Sweden; consequently he was a stranger in Stockholm. He knew nobody; was not on visiting terms with any of the families and met his acquaintances nowhere but at the public-house. He talked to them freely, but never gave them his confidence, in fact he had no confidence to give. At school he taught the third class and this gave him a feeling of having been stunted in his growth. A very long time ago he had been in the third class himself, had gradually crept up to the seventh, and had spent a few terms at the University; now he had returned to the third; he had been there for twelve years without being moved. He taught the second and third books of Euclid; this was the course of instruction for the whole year. He saw only a fragment of life; a fragment without beginning or end; the second and third books. In his spare time he read the newspapers and books on archaeology. Archaeology is a modern science, one might almost say a disease of the time. And there is danger in it, for it proves over and over again that human folly has pretty nearly always been the same.

Politics was to him nothing but an interesting game of chess—played for the king, for he was brought up like everybody else; it was an article of faith with him that nothing which happened in the world, concerned him, personally; let those look to it whom God had placed in a position of power. This way of looking at things filled his soul with peace and tranquillity; he troubled nobody and nothing troubled him. When he found, as he did occasionally, that an unusually foolish event had occurred, he consoled himself with the conviction that it could not have been helped. His education had made him selfish, and the catechism had taught him that if everybody did his duty, all things would be well, whatever happened. He did his duty towards his pupils in an exemplary fashion; he was never late; never ill. In his private life, too, he was above reproach; he paid his rent on the day it fell due, never ran up bills at his restaurant, and spent only one evening a week on pleasure. His life glided along like a railway train to the second and, being a clever man, he managed to avoid collisions. He gave no thought to the future; a truly selfish man never does, for the simple reason that the future belongs to him for no longer than twenty or thirty years at the most.

And thus his days passed.

Midsummer morning dawned—radiant and sunny as mid-summer morning should be. The schoolmaster was still in bed, reading a book on the Art of Warfare in ancient Egypt, when Miss Augusta came into his room with his breakfast. She had put on his tray some slices of saffron bread, in honour of the festival, and on his dinner-napkin lay a spray of elder blossoms. On the previous night she had decorated his room with branches of the birch-tree, put clean sand and some cowslips in the spittoon, and a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley on the dressing table.

“Aren’t you going to make an excursion to-day, sir?” she asked, glancing at the decorations, anxious for a word of thanks or approval.

But Mr. Blom had not even noticed the decorations, and therefore he answered dryly:

“Haven’t you realised yet that I never make excursions? I hate elbowing my way through a crowd, and the noise of the children gets on my nerves.”

“But surely you won’t stay in town on such a lovely day! You’ll at least go to the Deer Park?”

“That would be the very last place I should go to, especially to-day, when it will be crowded. Oh! no, I’m better off in town, and I wish to goodness that this holiday nuisance would be stopped.”

“There are plenty of people who say that there aren’t half enough holidays these days when everybody has to work so hard,” said the old woman in a conciliatory tone. “But is there anything else you wish, sir? My sister and I are making an excursion by steamer, and we shan’t be back until ten o’clock to-night.”

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves, Miss Augusta. I want nothing, and am quite able to look after myself. The caretaker can do my room when I have gone out.”

Miss Augusta left him alone with his breakfast. When he had eaten it, he lit a cigar and remained in bed with his Egyptian Warfare. The open window shook softly in the southern breeze. At eight o’clock the bells, large and small, of the nearest church began to ring, and those of the other churches of Stockholm, St. Catherine’s, St. Mary’s and St. Jacob’s, joined in; they tinkled and jingled, enough to make a heathen tear his hair in despair. When the church bells stopped, a military band on the bridge of a steamer began to play a set of quadrilles from The Weak Point. The schoolmaster writhed between his sheets, and would have got out of bed and shut the window if it had not been so hot. Next there came a rolling of drums, which was interrupted by the strains of a brass quintet which played, on another steamer, the Hunter’s Chorus from the Freischütz. But the cursed rolling of drums approached. They were marching at the head of the Riflemen on their way to camp. Now he was subjected to a medley of sounds: the Riflemen’s march, the signals, the bells and the brass bands on the steamers, until at last the whole crash and din was drowned by the throbbing of the screw.

At ten o’clock he lit his spirit lamp and boiled his shaving water. His starched shirt lay on his chest of drawers, white and stiff as a board. It took him a quarter of an hour to push the studs through the button-holes. He spent half-an-hour in shaving himself. He brushed his hair as if it were a matter of the utmost importance. When he put on his trousers, he was careful that the lower ends should not touch the floor and become dusty.

His room was simply furnished, extremely plain and tidy. It was impersonal, neutral, like the room in a hotel. And yet he had spent in it twelve years of his life. Most people collect no end of trifles during such a period; presents, little superfluous nothings, ornaments. Not a single engraving, not a supplement to an illustrated magazine even, which at some time or other had appealed to him, hung on the walls; no antimacassar, no rug worked by a loving sister, lay on the chairs; no photograph of a beloved face stood on his writing-table, no embroidered pen-wiper lay by the side of the ink-stand. Everything had been bought as cheaply as possible with a view to avoiding unnecessary expense which might have hampered the owner’s independence.

He leaned out of the window which gave him a view of the street and, across Artillery Place, of the harbour. In the house opposite a woman was dressing. He turned away as if something ugly had met his gaze, or something which might disturb his peace of mind. The harbour was gay with the fluttering flags on the steamers and sailing-ships, and the water glittered in the sunshine. A few old women, prayer-book in hand, passed his window on their way to church. A sentinel with drawn sword was walking up and down before the Artillery Barracks, glancing discontentedly at the clock on the tower every now and then to see how much longer he would have to wait until the relieving guard arrived. Otherwise the street lay empty and grey in the hot sunshine. His eyes wandered back to the woman opposite. She was standing before her looking-glass, powder puff in hand, intent on powdering the corners of her nose, with a grimace which made her look like a monkey. He left the window and sat down in his rocking chair.

He made his programme for the day, for he had a vague dread of solitude. On week days he was surrounded by the school-boys, and although he had no love for those wild beasts whose taming, or rather whose efficient acquisition of the difficult art of dissembling, was his life task, yet he felt a certain void when he was not with them. Now, during the long summer vacations, he had established a holiday school, but even so he had been compelled to give the boys short summer holidays, and, with the exception of meal times when he could always count on the bookseller and the second violin, he had been alone for several days.

“At two o’clock,” he mused, “when the guard has been relieved, and the crowds have dispersed, I’ll go to my restaurant to dine; then I’ll invite the bookseller to Strömsborg; there won’t be a soul to-day; we can have coffee there and punch, and stay till the evening when we’ll return to town and to Rejner’s.” (Rejner’s was the name of his restaurant in Berzelius Place.)

Punctually at two o’clock he took his hat, brushed himself carefully and went out.

“I wonder whether there’ll be stewed perch to-day,” he thought. “And mightn’t one treat oneself to asparagus, as it’s midsummer-day?”

He strolled past the high wall of the Government Bakery. In Berzelius Park the seats which were usually occupied by the nursemaids of the rich and their charges, were crowded with the families of the labourers who had appeared in great numbers with their perambulators. He saw a mother feeding her baby. She was a large, full-breasted woman, and the baby’s dimpled hand almost disappeared in her bosom. The schoolmaster turned away with a feeling of loathing. He was annoyed to see these strangers in his park. It was very much like the servants using the drawing-room when their master and mistress had gone out; moreover, he couldn’t forgive them their plainness.

He arrived at the glass verandah, and put his hand on the door handle, thinking once more of the stewed perch “with lots of parsley,” when his eyes fell on a notice on the door. There was no necessity to read it, he knew its purport: the restaurant was closed on midsummer-day; he had forgotten it. He felt as if he had run with his head into a lamp-post. He was furious; first of all with the proprietor for closing, then with himself for having forgotten that the restaurant would be closed. It seemed to him so monstrous that he could have forgotten an incident of such importance, that he couldn’t believe it and racked his brain to find someone on whom he could lay the blame. Of course, it was the fault of the proprietor. He had run off the lines, come into collision. He was done. He sat down on the seat and almost shed tears of rage.

Thump! a ball hit him right in the middle of his starched shirt front. Like an infuriated wasp he rose from his seat to find the criminal; a plain little girl’s face laughed into his; a labourer in his Sunday clothes and straw hat appeared, took her by the hand and smilingly expressed a hope that the child had not hurt him; a laughing crowd of soldiers and servant girls stared at him. He looked round for a constable for he felt that his rights as a human being had been encroached upon. But when he saw the constable in familiar conversation with the child’s mother, he dropped the idea of making a scene, went straight to the nearest cab-stand, hired a cab, and told the driver to drive him to the bookseller’s; he could not bear to be alone any longer.

In the safe shelter of the cab he took out his handkerchief and flicked the dust from his shirt front.

He dismissed the cab in Goten Street, for he felt sure that he would find his friend at home. But as he walked upstairs his assurance left him. Supposing he were out after all!

He was out. Not one of the tenants was at home. His knock sounded through an empty house; his footsteps re-echoed on the deserted stairs.

When he was again in the street he was at a loss to know what to do. He did not know Potocki’s address, and where was he to find an address book on a day when all the shops were closed?

Without knowing where he was going, he went down the street, past the harbour, across the bridge. He did not meet a single man he knew. The presence of the crowd which occupied the town during the absence of their betters annoyed him, for, like the rest of us, the education which he had received at school had made an aristocrat of him.

In his first anger he had forgotten his hunger, but now it re-asserted itself. A new, terrible thought occurred to him, a thought which up to now he had put away from him out of sheer cowardice: Where was he to dine? He had started out with plenty of vouchers in his pocket, but only one crown and fifty öre in coin. The vouchers were only used at Rejner’s, for convenience sake, and he had spent a crown on his cabfare.

He found himself again in Berzelius Park. Everywhere he met labourers and their families, eating what they had brought with them in baskets; hard-boiled eggs, crabs, pancakes. And the police did not interfere. On the contrary, he saw a policeman with a sandwich in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. But what irritated him more than anything else was the fact that these people whom he despised had the advantage of him. But why couldn’t he go into a dairy and appease his hunger? Yes, why not? The very thought of it made him shudder.

After some little reflection he went down to the harbour, intending to cross over to the Deer Park. He was bound to find acquaintances there from whom he could borrow money (hateful thought!) for his dinner. And if so, he would dine at “Hazelmount,” the best restaurant.

The steamer was so crowded that schoolmaster Blom had to stand close to the engine; the heat at his back was intolerable; his morning coat was being covered with grease spots, while he stood, with his gaze rivetted on the untidy head of a servant girl and endured the rancid smell of the hair-oil. But he did not see a single face he knew.

When he entered the restaurant in the Deer Park, he squared his shoulders and tried to look as distinguished as possible.

The space before the restaurant was like the auditorium of a theatre and seemed to serve the same purpose: that is to say, it was a place where one met one’s friends and showed off. The verandah was occupied by officers, blue in the face with eating and drinking; with them were representatives of the foreign Powers, grown old and grey in their strenuous efforts to protect fellow-countrymen who had got mixed up with sailors and fishermen in drunken brawls, or assist at Gala performances, christenings, weddings and funerals. So much for the aristocracy. In the centre of a large space Mr. Blom suddenly discovered the chimney sweep of his quarter, the proprietor of a small inn, the chemist’s assistant and others of the same standing. He watched the game-keeper in his green coat and silver lace, with his gilt staff, walking up and down and casting contemptuous glances at the assembled crowd, as if he were wondering why they were here? The schoolmaster felt self-conscious under the stare of all those eyes which seemed to say: “Look at him! there he goes, wondering how to get dinner!” But there was nothing else for it. He went on to the verandah where the people sat eating perch and asparagus, and drinking Sauternes and Champagne.

All of a sudden he felt the pressure of a friendly hand on his shoulder, and as he turned round, he found himself face to face with Gustav, the waiter, who seized his hand and exclaimed with undisguised pleasure:

“Is that really you, Mr. Blom? How are you?”

But Gustav, the waiter, who was so pleased to find himself for a few moments the equal of his master, held a piece of wood in his warm hand and met a pair of eyes which pierced his soul like gimlets. And yet this same hand had given him ten crowns only yesterday, and the owner of it had thanked him for six months’ service and attention in the way one thanks a friend. The waiter went back to his companions and sat down amongst them, embarrassed and snubbed. But Mr. Blom left the verandah with bitter thoughts and pushed his way through the crowd; he fancied that he could hear a mocking: “He hasn’t been able to get dinner, after all!”

He came to a large open space. There was a puppet-show, and Jasper was being beaten by his wife. A little further off a sailor was showing servant girls, soldiers and apprentices their future husband or wife in a wheel of fortune. They all had had dinner and were enjoying themselves; for a moment he believed himself their inferior, but only for a moment; then he remembered that they had not the vaguest idea of how an Egyptian camp was fortified. The thought gave him back his self-respect, and he wondered how it was possible that people could be so degraded as to find pleasure in such childishness.

In the meantime he had lost all inclination to try the other restaurants; he passed the Tivoli and went further into the heart of the park. Young men and women were dancing on the grass to the strains of a violin: a little further off a whole family was camping under an old oak; the head of the family was kneeling down, in his shirt sleeves, with bare head, a glass of beer in one hand, a sandwich in the other; his fat, jolly, clean-shaven face beamed with pleasure and good-nature as he invited his guests, who were evidently his wife, parents-in-law, brothers, shop-assistants and servants, to eat, drink and be merry, for to-day was Midsummer day, all day long. And the jovial fellow made such droll remarks that the whole party writhed on the grass with amusement. After the pancake had been produced and eaten with the fingers, and the port bottle been round, the senior shop-assistant made a speech which was at once so moving and so witty that the ladies at one moment pressed their handkerchiefs to their eyes, while the head of the family bit his lips, and at the next interrupted the speaker with loud laughter and cheers.

The schoolmaster’s mood became more and more morose, but instead of going away he sat down on a stone under a pinetree and watched “the animals.”