The winter passed; slowly for the sufferers, more quickly for those who were less unhappy. Spring came with its disappointed hopes of sun and verdure, and in its turn made room for the summer which was but a short introduction to the autumn.

On a May morning Arvid Falk, now a member of the permanent staff of the Workman's Flag, was strolling along the quay, watching the vessels loading and discharging their cargoes. He looked less well-groomed than in days gone by; his black hair was longer than fashion decreed, and he wore a beard À la Henri IV, which gave his thin face an almost savage expression. An ominous fire burned in his eyes, a fire denoting the fanatic or the drunkard.

He seemed to be endeavouring to make a choice among the vessels, but was unable to come to a decision. After hesitating for a considerable time, he accosted one of the sailors, who was wheeling a barrow full of goods on to a brig. He courteously raised his hat.

"Can you tell me the destination of this ship?" he asked timidly, imagining that he was speaking in a bold voice.

"Ship? I see no ship?"

The bystanders laughed.

"But if you want to know where this brig's bound for, go and read that bill over there!"

Falk was disconcerted, but he forced himself to say, angrily:

"Can't you give a civil reply to a civil question?"

"Go to hell, and don't stand there swearing at a fellow!—'tention!"

The conversation broke off, and Falk made up his mind. He retraced his footsteps, passed through a narrow street, crossed a market-place, and turned the first corner. Before the door of a dirty-looking house he stopped. Again he hesitated; he could never overcome his besetting sin of indecision.

A small, ragged boy with a squint came running along, his hands full of proofs in long strips; as he was going to pass Falk, the latter stopped him.

"Is the editor upstairs?" he asked.

"Yes, he's been here since seven," replied the boy, breathlessly.

"Has he asked for me?"

"Yes, more than once."

"Is he in a bad temper?"

"He always is."

The boy shot upstairs like an arrow. Falk, following on his heels, entered the editorial office. It was a hole with two windows looking on a dark street; before each of the windows stood a plain deal table, covered with paper, pens, newspapers, scissors and a gum bottle.

One of the tables was occupied by his old friend Ygberg, dressed in a ragged black coat, engaged in reading proofs. At the other table, which was Falk's, sat a man in shirt sleeves, his head covered by a black silk cap of the kind affected by the communards. His face was covered by a red beard, and his thick-set figure with its clumsy outlines betrayed the man of the people.

As Falk entered, the communard's legs kicked the table violently: he turned up his shirt-sleeves, displaying blue tattoo marks representing an anchor and an Anglo-Saxon R, seized a pair of scissors, savagely stabbed the front page of a morning paper, cut out a paragraph, and said, rudely, with his back to Falk:

"Where have you been?"

"I've been ill," replied Falk, defiantly, as he thought, but humbly as Ygberg told him afterwards.

"It's a lie! You've been drinking! I saw you at a cafÉ last night...."

"Surely I can go where I please."

"You can do what you like; but you've got to be here at the stroke of the clock, according to our agreement. It's a quarter past eight. I am well aware that gentlemen who have been to college, where they imagine they learn a lot, have no idea of method and manners. Don't you call it ill-bred to be late at your work? Aren't you behaving like a boor when you compel your employer to do your work? What? It's the world turned upside down! The employÉ treats the master—the employer, if you like—as if he were a dog, and capital is oppressed."

"When did you come to these conclusions?"

"When? Just now, sir! just now! And I trust these conclusions are worth considering, in spite of that. But I discovered something else; you are an ignoramus; you can't spell! Look at this! What's written here? Read it! 'We hope that all those who will have to go through their drill next year....' Is it possible? 'Who ... next year....'"

"Well, that's quite right," said Falk.

"Right? How dare you say it's right? It's customary to say who in the next year, and consequently it should also be written in this form."

"That's right, too; definitions of time govern either the accusative or...."

"None of your learned palaver! Don't talk nonsense to me! Besides this you spell ex-ercise with an x only, although it should be spelt ex-sercise. Don't make excuses—is it ex-ercise or ex-sercise?"

"Of course people say...."

"People say—therefore ex-sercise is right; the customary pronunciation must be correct. Perhaps, all things considered, I'm a fool? Perhaps I can't spell correctly? But enough, now! Get to work and another time pay a little more attention to the clock."

He jumped up from his chair with a yell, and boxed the ears of the printer's boy.

"Are you sleeping in bright daylight, you young scamp? I'll teach you to keep awake. You are not yet too old for a thrashing."

He seized the victim by the braces, threw him on a pile of unsold papers, and beat him with his belt.

"I wasn't asleep! I wasn't asleep! I was only closing my eyes a little," howled the boy.

"What, you dare to deny it? You've learned to lie, but I will teach you to speak the truth! Were you asleep or were you not asleep? Tell the truth or you'll be sorry for it."

"I wasn't asleep," whimpered the boy, too young and inexperienced to get over his difficulty by telling a lie.

"I see, you mean to stand by your lie, you hardened little devil! You insolent liar!"

He was going to continue the thrashing when Falk rose, approached the editor, and said firmly:

"Don't touch him! I saw that he was not asleep!"

"By jove! Listen to him! Who the dickens are you? Don't touch him! Who said those words? I must have heard a gnat buzzing. Or perhaps my ears deceived me. I hope so! I do hope so! Mr. Ygberg! You are a decent fellow. You haven't been to college. Did you happen to see whether this boy, whom I'm holding by the braces like a fish, was asleep or not?"

"If he wasn't asleep," replied Ygberg, phlegmatically and obligingly, "he was just on the point of dropping off."

"Well answered! Would you mind holding him, Mr. Ygberg, while I give him a lesson with my cane in telling the truth?"

"You've no right to beat him," said Falk. "If you dare to touch him, I shall open the window and call for the police."

"I am master in my own house and I always thrash my apprentices. He is an apprentice and will be employed in the editorial office later on. That's what's going to be done, although there are people who imagine that a paper can only be properly edited by a man who has been to college. Speak up, Gustav, are you learning newspaper work? Answer, but tell the truth, or...."

Before the boy had time to reply, the door was opened and a head looked in—a very striking head, and certainly not one that might have been expected in such a place; but it was a well-known head; it had been painted five times.

At the sight of it the editor strapped his belt round him, hastily put on his coat, bowed and smiled.

The visitor asked whether the editor was disengaged? He received a satisfactory reply, and the last remnant of the working man disappeared when a quick movement swept the communard's cap off the editor's head.

Both men went into an inner office and the door closed behind them.

"I wonder what the Count's after?" said Ygberg, with the air of a schoolboy, when the master had left the class-room.

"I don't wonder in the least," said Falk; "I think I know the kind of rascal he is, and the kind of rascal the editor is. But I am surprised to find that you have changed from a mere blockhead into an infamous wretch, and that you lend yourself to these disgraceful acts."

"Don't lose your temper, my dear fellow! You were not at the House last night?"

"No! In my opinion Parliament is a farce, except in so far as private interests are concerned. What about the 'Triton'?"

"The question was put to the vote, and it was resolved that the Government, in view of the greatness, the patriotism, which characterized the enterprise, should take over the debentures while the society went into liquidation, that is to say, settled the current affairs."

"Which means that Government will prop up the house while the foundation crumbles away, so as to give the directors time to get out of harm's way."

"You would rather that all those small...."

"I know what you are going to say, all those small capitalists. Yes, I would rather see them working with their small capital than idling away their time and lending it out at interest; but, above all things, I should like to see those sharpers in prison; it would help to put a stop to these swindles. But they call it political economy! It's vile! There's something else I want to say: You covet my post. You shall have it! I hate the idea of your sitting in your corner with a heart filled with bitterness, because you have to sweep up after me in reading proofs. There are already too many of my unprinted articles lying on the desk of this contemptible apostle of liberty to tempt me to go on telling cock-and-bull stories. The Red Cap was too Conservative to please me, but the People's Flag is too dirty."

"I am glad to see you relinquishing your chimeras and listening to common sense. Go to the Grey Bonnet, you'll have a chance there."

"I have lost the illusion that the cause of the oppressed lies in good hands, and I think it would be a splendid mission to enlighten the people on the value of public opinion—especially printed public opinion—and its origin; but I shall never abandon the cause."

The door to the inner room opened again, and the editor came out. He stood still in the middle of the office and said, in an unnaturally conciliatory voice, almost politely:

"I want you to look after the office for a day, Mr. Falk. I have to go away on important business. Mr. Ygberg will assist you so far as the daily business is concerned. His Lordship will be using my room for a few minutes. I hope, gentlemen, you will see that he has everything he wants."

"Oh, please don't trouble," came the Count's voice from inside the room, where he was sitting bent over a manuscript.

The editor went and, strange to say, two minutes later the Count went also; he had waited just long enough to avoid being seen in the company of the editor of the Workman's Flag.

"Are you sure that he's gone?" asked Ygberg.

"I hope so," said Falk.

"Then I'll go and have a look at the market. By-the-by, have you seen Beda since?"

"Since when?"

"Since she left the cafÉ and went to live in a room by herself."

"How do you know she did?"

"Do control your temper, Falk. You'll never get on in the world unless you do."

"Yes, you're right. I must take matters more calmly, or else I'll go out of my mind! But that girl, whom I loved so dearly! How shamefully she has treated me! To give to that clumsy boor all she denied to me! And then to have the face to tell me that it proved the purity of her love for me!"

"Most excellent dialectics! And she is quite right too, for her first proposition is correct. She does love you, doesn't she?"

"She's running after me, anyhow."

"And you?"

"I hate her with all my soul, but I am afraid to meet her."

"Which proves that you are still in love with her."

"Let's change the subject!"

"You really must control yourself, Falk! Take an example from me! But now I'll go and sun myself; one should enjoy life as much as possible in this dreary world. Gustav, you can go and play buttons for an hour, if you like."

Falk was left alone. The sun threw his rays over the steep roof opposite and warmed the room; he opened the window and put out his head for a breath of fresh air, but he only breathed the pungent odours of the gutter. His glance swept the street on the right and far away in the distance he saw a part of a steamer, a few waves of the Lake of MÄlar glittering in the sunlight, and a hollow in the rocks on the other side, which were just beginning to show a little green here and there. He thought of the people whom that steamer would take into the country, who would bathe in those waves and feast their eyes on the young green. But at this moment the whitesmith below him began to hammer a sheet of iron, so that house and window panes trembled; two or three labourers went by with a rattling, evil-smelling cart, and an odour of brandy, beer, sawdust, and pine-branches poured out of the inn opposite. He shut the window and sat down at his table.

Before him lay a heap of about a hundred provincial papers, from which it was his task to make cuttings. He took off his cuffs and began to look through them. They smelt of oil and soot and blackened his hands—that was their principal feature. Nothing he considered worthy of reprinting was of any use, for he had to consider the programme of his paper. A report to the effect that the workmen of a certain factory had given the foreman a silver snuff-box had to be cut out; but the notice of a manufacturer having given five hundred crowns to his working-men's funds had to be ignored. A paragraph reporting that the Duke of Halland had handselled a pile-driver, and Director Holzheim celebrated the event in verses, had to be cut out and reproduced in full "because the people liked to read this kind of thing"; if he could add a little biting sarcasm, all the better, for then "they were sure to hear about it."

Roughly speaking, the rule was to cut out everything said in favour of journalists and working men and everything depreciating clergymen, officers, wholesale merchants (not retail), the professions, and famous writers. Moreover, at least once a week, it was his business to attack the management of the Royal Theatre, and severely criticize the frivolous musical comedies produced in the Little Theatre, in the name of morality and public decency—he had noticed that the working men did not patronize these theatres. Once a month the town councillors had to be accused of extravagance. As often as opportunity arose the form of government, not Government itself, had to be assailed. The editor severely censored all attacks on certain members of Parliament and ministers. Which? That was a mystery unknown to even the editor; it depended on a combination of circumstances which only the secret proprietor of the paper could deal with.

Falk worked with his scissors until one of his hands was black. He had frequent recourse to the gum-bottle, but the gum smelt sour and the heat in the room was stifling. The poor aloe, capable of enduring thirst like a camel, and patiently receiving countless stabs from an irritated steel-nib, increased the terrible resemblance to a desert. It had been stabbed until it was covered with black wounds; its leaves shot, like a bundle of donkeys' ears out of the parched mould. Falk probably had a vague consciousness of something of this sort, as he sat, plunged in thought, for before he could realize what he was doing, he had docked off all the ear lobes. When he perceived what he had done, he painted the wounds with gum and watched it drying in the sun.

He vaguely wondered for a few moments how he was to get dinner, for he had strayed on to that path which leads to destruction, so-called poor circumstances. Finally he lit a pipe and watched the soothing smoke rising and bathing, for a few seconds in the sunshine. It made him feel more tolerant of poor Sweden, as she expressed herself in these daily, weekly, and monthly reports, called the Press.

He put the scissors aside and threw the papers into a corner; he shared the contents of the earthen water-bottle with the aloe; the miserable object looked like a creature whose wings had been clipped; a spirit standing in a bog on its head, digging for something; for pearls, for instance, or at any rate, for empty shells.

Then despair, like a tanner, seized him again with a long hook, and pushed him down into the vat, where he was to be prepared for the knife, which should scrape his skin off and make him like everybody else. And he felt no remorse, no regret at a wasted life, but only despair at having to die in his youth, die the spiritual death, before he had had an opportunity of being of use in the world; despair that he was being cast into the fire as a useless reed.

The clock on the German church struck eleven, and the chimes began to play "Oh blessed land" and "My life a wave"; as if seized by the same idea, an Italian barrel-organ, with a flute accompaniment, began to play "The Blue Danube." So much music put new life into the tinsmith below, who began hammering his iron-sheet with redoubled energy.

The din and uproar prevented Falk from becoming aware of the opening of the door and the entrance of two men. One of them had a tall, lean figure, an aquiline nose and long hair; the other one was short, blond, and thick set; his perspiring face much resembled the quadruped which the Hebrews consider more unclean than any other. Their outward appearance betrayed an occupation requiring neither much mental nor great physical strength; it had a quality of vagueness, pointing to irregularity of work and habits.

"Hsh!" whispered the tall man, "are you alone?"

Falk was partly pleased, partly annoyed at the sight of his visitors.

"Quite alone; the Red One's left town."

"Has he? Come along then and have some dinner."

Falk had no objection; he locked the office and went with his visitors to the nearest public-house, where the three of them sat down in the darkest corner.

"Here, have some brandy," said the thick-set man, whose glazed eyes sparkled at the sight of the brandy bottle.

But Falk who had only joined his friends because he was yearning for sympathy and comfort, paid no attention to the proffered delights.

"I haven't been as miserable as this for a long time," he said.

"Have some bread and butter and a herring," said the tall man. "We'll have some caraway cheese. Here! Waiter!"

"Can't you advise me?" Falk began again. "I can't stand the Red One any longer, and I must...."

"Here! Waiter! Bring some black bread! Drink, Falk, and don't talk nonsense."

Falk was thrown out of the saddle; he made no second attempt to find sympathy with his mental difficulties, but tried another, not unusual way.

"Your advice is the brandy bottle?" he said. "Very well, with all my soul, then!"

The alcohol flowed through his veins like poison, for he was not accustomed to take strong drink in the morning; the smell of cooking, the buzzing of the flies, the odour of the faded flowers, which stood by the side of the dirty table-centre, induced in him a strange feeling of well-being. And his low companions with their neglected linen, their greasy coats, and their unwashed gaol-bird faces harmonized so well with his own degraded position, that he felt a wild joy surging in his heart.

"We were in the Deer Park last night and, by Jove! we did drink," said the stout man, once more enjoying the past delights in memory.

Falk had no answer to this, and moreover, his thoughts were running in a different groove.

"Isn't it jolly to have a morning off?" said the tall man, who seemed to be playing the part of tempter.

"It is, indeed!" replied Falk, trying to measure his freedom, as it were, with a glance through the window; but all he saw was a fire-escape and a dust-bin in a yard which never received more than a faint reflexion of the summer sky.

"Half a pint! That's it! Ah! Well and what do you say to the 'Triton'? Hahaha!"

"Don't laugh," said Falk; "many a poor devil will suffer through it."

"Who are the poor devils? Poor capitalists? Are you sorry for those who don't work, but live on the proceeds of their money? No, my boy, you are still full of prejudices! There was a funny tale in the Hornet about a wholesale merchant, who bequeathed to the crÈche Bethlehem twenty thousand crowns, and was given the order of Vasa for his munificence; now it has transpired that the bequest was in 'Triton' shares with joint liability, and so the crÈche is of course bankrupt. Isn't that lovely? The assets were twenty-five cradles and an oil painting by an unknown master. It's too funny! The portrait was valued at five crowns! Hahahaha!"

The subject of conversation irritated Falk, for he knew more of the matter than the two others.

"Did you see that the Red Cap unmasked that humbug SchÖnstrÖm who published that volume of miserable verses at Christmas?" said the stout man. "It really was a rare pleasure to learn the truth about the rascal. I have more than once given him a sound slating in the Copper-Snake."

"But you were rather unjust; his verses were not as bad as you said," remarked the tall man.

"Not as bad? They were worse than mine which the Grey Bonnet tore to shreds. Don't you remember?"

"By-the-by, Falk, have you been to the theatre in the Deer Park?" asked the tall man.

"No!"

"What a pity! That Lundholm gang of thieves is playing there. Impudent fellow, the director! He sent no seats to the Copper-Snake, and when we arrived at the theatre last night, he turned us out. But he'll pay for it! You give it to the dog! Here's paper and pencil. Heading: 'Theatre and Music. Deer Park Theatre.' Now, you go on!"

"But I haven't seen the company."

"What does that matter? Have you never written about anything you hadn't seen?"

"No! I've unmasked humbugs, but I have never attacked unoffending people, and I know nothing about this company."

"They are a miserable lot. Just scum," affirmed the stout man. "Sharpen your pen and bruise his heel; you are splendid at it."

"Why don't you bruise him yourselves?"

"Because the printers know our handwriting and some of them walk on in the crowds. Moreover Lundholm is a violent fellow; he will be sure to invade the editorial office; then it will be a good thing to be able to tell him that the criticism is a communication from the public. And while you write up the stage, I will do the concerts. There was a sacred concert last week. Wasn't the man's name Daubry? With a 'y'?"

"No, with an 'i,'" corrected the fat man. "Don't forget that he's a tenor and sang the 'Stabat Mater.'"

"How do you spell it?"

"I'll tell you in a minute."

The stout editor of the Copper-Snake took a packet of greasy newspapers from the gas-meter.

"Here's the whole programme, and, I believe, a criticism as well."

Falk could not help laughing.

"How could a criticism appear simultaneously with the advertisement?"

"Why shouldn't it? But we shan't want it; I will criticize that French mob myself. You'd better do the literature, Fatty!"

"Do the publishers send books to the Copper-Snake?" asked Falk.

"Are you mad?"

"Do you buy them yourselves for the sake of reviewing them?"

"Buy them? Greenhorn! Have another glass and cheer up, and I'll treat you to a chop."

"Do you read the books which you review?"

"Who do you think has time for reading books? Isn't it enough to write about them? It's quite sufficient to read the papers. Moreover, it's our principle to slate everything."

"An absurd principle!"

"Not at all! It brings all the author's enemies and enviers on one's side—and so one's in the majority. Those who are neutral would rather see an author slated than praised. To the nobody there is something edifying and comforting in the knowledge that the road to fame is beset with thorns. Don't you think so?"

"You may be right. But the idea of playing with human destinies in this way is terrible."

"Oh! It's good for young and old; I know that, for I was persistently slated in my young days."

"But you mislead public opinion."

"The public does not want to have an opinion, it wants to satisfy its passions. If I praise your enemy you writhe like a worm and tell me that I have no judgment; if I praise your friend, you tell me that I have. Take that last piece of the Dramatic Theatre, Fatty, which has just been published in book form."

"Are you sure that it has been published?"

"I am certain of it. It's quite safe to say that there isn't enough action in it; that's a phrase the public knows well; laugh a little at the 'beautiful language'; that's good, old, disparaging praise; then attack the management for having accepted such a play and point out that the moral teaching is doubtful—a very safe thing to say about most things. But as you haven't seen the performance, say that want of room compels us to postpone our criticism of the acting. Do that, and you can't make a mistake."

"Who is the unfortunate author?" asked Falk.

"Nobody knows."

"Think of his parents, his friends, who will read your possibly quite unjust remarks."

"What's that got to do with the Copper-Snake? They were hoping to see a friend slated; they know what to expect from the Copper-Snake."

"Have you no conscience?"

"Has the public which supports us, a conscience? Do you think we could survive if it did not support us? Would you like to hear a paragraph which I wrote on the present state of literature? I can assure you it will give you plenty to think about. I have a copy with me. But let us have some stout first. Waiter! Here! Now I'm going to give you a treat; you can profit by it if you like."

"'We have not heard so much whining in the Swedish verse-factory for many years; this constant puling is enough to drive a man into a lunatic asylum. Robust rascals caterwaul like cats in March; they imagine that anÆmia and adenoids will arouse public interest now that consumption is played out. And withal they have backs broad as brewers' horses and faces red as tapsters. This one whimpers about the infidelity of women, although all he has to go on is the bought loyalty of a wanton; that one tells us that he has no gold, but that his "harp is all he possesses in the world"—the liar! He has five thousand crowns dividend per annum and the right to an endowed chair in the Swedish Academy. A third is a faithless, cynical scoffer, who cannot open his lips without breathing forth his impure spirit and babbling blasphemies. Their verses are not a whit better than those which thirty years ago clergymen's daughters sang to the guitar. They should write for confectioners at a penny a line, and not waste the time of publishers, printers, and reviewers with their rhymes. What do they write about? About nothing at all, that is to say about themselves. It is bad form to talk about oneself, but it is quite the right thing to write about oneself. What are they bemoaning? Their incapacity to achieve a success? Success? That is the word! Have they produced one single thought, capable of benefiting their fellow-creatures; the age in which they live? If they had but once championed the cause of the helpless, their sins might be forgiven them; but they have not. Therefore they are as sounding brass—nay, they are as a clanking piece of tin and the cracked bell of a fool's cap—for they have no other love than the love of the next edition of their books, the love of the Academy and the love of themselves.'"

"That's sarcasm, isn't it? What?"

"It's unjust," said Falk.

"I find it very impressive," said the stout man. "You can't deny that it is well written. Can you? He wields a pen which pierces shoe-leather."

"Now, lads, stop talking and write; afterwards you shall have coffee and liqueurs."

And they wrote of human merit and human unworthiness and broke hearts as if they were breaking egg-shells.

Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back. He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth, his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dust-bin—standing like a coffin—with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter. His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt, stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above—there was nothing but the empty, blue void.

Falk took his pen and began to shade the letters of the headline "Theatre," when a strong hand clutched his arm and a firm voice said:

"Come along, I want to speak to you!"

He looked up, taken back and ashamed. Borg stood beside him, apparently determined not to let him go.

"May I introduce...." began Falk.

"No, you may not," interrupted Borg, "I don't want to know any drunken scribblers, come along."

He drew Falk to the door.

"Where's your hat? Oh, here it is! Come along!"

They were in the street. Borg took his arm, led him to the nearest square, marched him into a shop and bought him a pair of canvas shoes. This done, he drew him across the lock to the harbour. A cutter lay there, fast to her moorings, but ready to go to sea; in the cutter sat young Levi reading a Latin grammar and munching a piece of bread and butter.

"This," said Borg, "is the cutter Urijah; it's an ugly name, but she is a good boat and she is insured in the 'Triton.' There sits her owner, the Hebrew lad Isaac, reading a Latin grammar—the idiot wants to go to college—and from this moment you are engaged as his tutor for the summer—and now we'll be off for our summer residence at NÄmdÖ. All hands on board! No demur! Ready? Put off!"