Part 1

MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH ❧

MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH BY HJALMAR SÖDERBERG TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH BY CHARLES WHARTON STORK ❧ WITH DRAWINGS BY THEODORE NADEJEN ❧

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXXX

B-E MARTIN BIRCK’S YOUTH · COPYRIGHT 1930, BY HARPER & BROTHERS · PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. _FIRST EDITION_

TO A. G. H. SPIERS CRITICAL FRIEND FRIENDLY CRITIC THIS VOLUME IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED BY THE TRANSLATOR

PREFACE

_It is a sad thought that everyone cannot enjoy Söderberg, that this master of delicate and incisive realism, this prince of humorists, is--for Anglo-Saxons, at least--an acquired taste. But it is well to face at the outset the fact that Söderberg is a European Continental, an Anatole France of Sweden. To those who believe that a man is unvirile or at least anæmic if he refuses to believe in human perfectibility this attitude toward life will seem barren and depressing, one to encourage discouragement. How much pleasanter to feel with Pippa, not only at 7_ +A.M.+ _on a May morning, but at all hours and seasons, that «all’s right with the world»! To insinuate the contrary is to give sanction to those doubts which, if they overtake even the most confident of us at unguarded moments, should all the more be repressed. What is culture if it is not sweetness and light? Listen to Söderberg: «Why all this optimism when not one of the old problems is solved?» And again, one of his characters affirms, «I believe in the lust of the flesh and the incurable loneliness of the soul.»_

_We read fiction for pleasure. What does this new Swedish novelist offer in compensation for a somewhat despondent view of life? He himself rather hesitates to tell us and in this very hesitation we may, if the faculty be in us, discern one of his chief attractions. Söderberg is reticent because he wishes to present the truth as he sees it without exaggeration and without prejudice. He colors his picture neither with the golden glow of the untroubled believer nor with the red zeal of the revolutionary. He is honest to such a degree that he will not stress his own honesty. On the contrary, he doubts his very doubt: «How could I, a boy of sixteen, be right and all my elders and betters wrong?» And again in_ +Martin Birck+, _«he was not quite certain that truth in itself could produce happiness, but history had taught him that illusion created unhappiness and crime.» And yet all the more from this unobtrusiveness we divine the intellectual honesty of the skeptic, which bursts out only once in the present novel: «Would a man never come who did not sing, but spoke, and spoke plainly!» Such a man has the right to «paint the thing as he sees it,» to revalue the time-honored beliefs and customs of the past in the light of his own experience._

_We may, I think, trust in Söderberg’s fidelity to his vision as in that of few living writers. He collects his data carefully and transmits them simply. In that there is always stimulus to a reader who appreciates how difficult it is to do. But he might do all this and be no more than a good photographer._

_As we follow the everyday run of events in_ +Martin Birck+, _we may at first be impressed with their perfect verisimilitude and yet incline to class the author as unoriginal. In that respect, though probably in no other, the prose of Söderberg resembles the poetry of Wordsworth. Few readers will progress more than a page or two without that sense of the significant in the commonplace which is the very soul of originality. Söderberg has followed the famous counsel of Flaubert to De Maupassant: «Look at an object until you have seen in it everything that anyone else can see, and then look until you perceive what no one else has seen!» Rarely has any prose been fuller of implications--emotional, psychological, moral--than Söderberg’s. To re-read him is invariably to be surprised at all one has missed before. One passes through life with him as one might walk through a meadow with a great naturalist or stroll through a city at night with Whistler. The trivial is clothed with meaning, the habitual is touched with magic. The world of Söderberg lives; it lives in beauty._

_And as one grows more and more conscious of the author’s pregnance in matter, one is equally delighted with the perfect consonance of his manner. He gives not only the thing in itself, but the feel of the thing, the overtone. His curious felicity is never startling or precious, it is simply adequate. How far this may be recaptured in translation may of course be an open question. Here at least is an attempt from the short story_ +Margot+:

_It was a cool night in the early part of October. The moon was up; a cold, moist wind was blowing. The big buildings on Blasieholm formed a dark mass, whose broken and irregular edge seemed to be catching at the wisps of cloud that drove forward against a deep-blue background. The still, heavy water of Nybro Inlet mirrored a broad glittering moonpath in oily rings, and along the wharves the lumber sloops raised a thin and motionless forest of masts and tackle. In the upper air was haste and tumult; the clouds hunted each other from west to east, till over the woods of Djurgården they congested into a low black wall. It was as if Heaven were breaking camp for a journey, for a flight._

_The reader of_ +Martin Birck+ _will find any number of similar passages, in description, character-drawing and the power of the author to express his own reactions on life and art_.

_What manner of man is this quiet interpreter of the life about him? Hjalmar Söderberg was born in Stockholm, 1869. The outward tenor of his way has been uneventful. After trying journalism in a provincial town he tired of «serving caviare to the Bœotians» and returned to his native city, the background of nearly all his work. He first achieved distinction in the «Storiettes,» miniature stories usually told in the first person and based on some casual incident of daily life. In this form he is unsurpassed._ +Martin Birck+, _his first novel, published in 1907, was partly inspired by «Niels Lyhne,» the work of his elder Danish contemporary, J. P. Jacobsen, but was mainly autobiographical. Söderberg was also influenced by the modern French novelists, especially Flaubert, Maupassant and Anatole France. The last named he translated. He wrote two other novels, «Dr. Glas» and «The Serious Game,» and two plays, «Gertrud» and «The Hour of Fate,» besides numerous collections of short stories. His last long book is «Jehovah’s Fire,» an historico-religious narrative. Some early poems and a small sheaf of criticism complete the tally of his rather moderate output. Of recent years he has been living in Copenhagen. He has never married._

_How little this dry recital of facts has to do with the real case in point! The genius of Söderberg is inherent in the temperament of the man. In appearance he is homely, stoutish, and suave, a bit Bohemian but decidedly a gentleman. Quiet, observant, unpretentious, and rather indolent, he gives an impression of infinite leisure and tolerance which is largely borne out by his writing. His mind is a rich, seemingly passive soil, in which small events take root and grow, as it were, without an effort on his part. Therein lies the unique charm of his stories; their unforced, organic quality._

_But in the simplicity of Söderberg there is infinite subtlety. He lets life speak through him because he realizes that in the last analysis nothing speaks as persuasively as life. In his presentation there is a skill beyond praise. With all his naturalism and tranquillity of style, he gives us great moments, moments of profound insight, of wistful loveliness, of quaint and surprising humor. After all, things do not choose themselves or arrange themselves in right relation on the canvas; they only seem to do so. Without obtruding his personality Söderberg speaks to the mind and emotions of his audience in no uncertain terms._

_What does he give us finally? First, perhaps, the delight of seeing nature and humanity clearly and the greater delight of entering imaginatively into the essence of both. His truth has the beauty of understanding. We find that life does not need to be idealized to be beautiful; it needs only to be realized. And as a corollary he gives us a sympathy in this manifestation which is not unlike that of Whitman, for it is the sympathy of acceptance. There is a tone of sadness, sometimes of almost tragic depth, in the knowledge of «what man has made of man,» and with it a smile of forgiveness. What we understand we pardon. Men and women are lovable in spite of, largely no doubt because of, their mistakes._

_But also men and women are irresistibly funny. Söderberg has almost exactly the mood of Jaques in «As You Like It.» But whereas Jaques is dry, Söderberg is sly, with an ingenuous slyness that never, as with Sterne, slips off into a leer. How he enjoys letting his people amuse us, in watching with us their self-important gestures, the eternal passions that fade away in a month or a year, their curious delusions about fame and money and respectability! If these people could see themselves! And as we look, we may perhaps be a little mortified to see_ our_selves. How foolishly we have wasted our energies and annoyed those about us, for what? Perhaps we shall be a little more lenient to the faults of others from now on. The laughter which Söderberg evokes is thoughtful laughter._

_Are we then given no positive impulse, is there no meaning in life, nothing worth striving for? «Perhaps not,» says Söderberg. And yet, pessimist though he is, he has a reticent pride of his own. He cannot, we feel, tell a lie, cannot force anyone in his stories to do or think anything that is not in character. Furthermore, he adumbrates through the philosophy of Martin the ideal of writing «so that each and all who really cared to could understand him.» And, like most of Söderberg’s simple statements, that means considerably more than appears on the surface._

_Enough, perhaps more than enough, has been said to indicate the mood for best enjoying_ +Martin Birck+. _To call further attention to details would only tend to spoil the pleasure of those attempered to appreciate it. I must return to the original statement that the reader’s reaction to it will be peculiarly personal. For myself, I differ almost completely from the author in his conclusions about life, I object strongly to his rather supine attitude, yet I admire and love him. I find him as brilliant as the modern French masters, and much more kindly. He has given me more than have nine-tenths of the worthy authors with whom I agree. There is in him a strict sense of truth, a tenderness, a humor which put him definitely on the side of the angels. He will annoy, will scandalize, many excellent people, but I am afraid I am not sorry that he should. He has been called the_ enfant terrible _of Swedish literature. Perhaps we have been taking him too seriously; no doubt he himself will think so. After all, there is something perennially fascinating about a naughty child._

_C. W. S._

THE OLD STREET ❧

--I--

Martin Birck was a little child, who lay in his bed and dreamed.

It was twilight of a summer evening, a green and tranquil twilight, and Martin went holding his mother’s hand through a big and marvelous garden where the shadows lay dark in the recesses of the walks. On both sides grew strange blue and red flowers, swaying back and forth in the wind on their slender stalks. He went along holding his mother’s hand, looking at the flowers in wonder and thinking of nothing. «You must pick only the blue ones; the red ones are poisonous,» said his mother. Then he let go her hand and stopped to pick a flower for her; it was a big blue flower he wanted to pick, as it nodded heavily, poised on its stem. Such a marvelous flower! He looked at it and smelled it. And again he looked at it with big astonished eyes; it wasn’t blue, after all, but red. It was quite red! And such an ugly, poisonous red! He threw the naughty flower on the ground and trampled on it as on a dangerous animal. But then, when he turned around, his mother was gone. «Mamma,» he cried, «where are you? Where are you? Why are you hiding from me?» Martin ran a little way down the walk, but he saw no one and he was near to weeping. The walk was silent and empty, and it was getting darker and darker. At last he heard a voice quite near: «Here I am, Martin. Don’t you see me?» But Martin saw nothing. «Here I am all the time. Why don’t you come?» Now Martin understood: behind the lilac bush, that was where the voice came from. Why hadn’t he realized that at once? He ran there and peeped; he was sure his mother had hidden there. But behind the bush stood Franz from the Long Row, making an ugly face with his thick, raw-looking lips, till he finished by sticking out his tongue as far as he could. And such a tongue as he had; it got longer and longer; there was no end to it; and it was covered with little yellowish-green blisters.

Franz was a little rowdy who lived in the «Long Row» slantwise across the street. The Sunday before he had spat on Martin’s new brown jacket and called him «stuck-up.»

Martin wanted to run away, but stood as if rooted to the earth. He felt his legs grow numb beneath him. Then the garden and the flowers and the trees had vanished and he was standing alone with Franz in a dark corner of the yard at home by the ash barrel. He tried to scream, but his throat was constricted....

--II--

But when he woke, his mother was standing by the bed with a clean white shirt in her hand and saying, «Up with you, little sleepyhead; Maria is off to school already. Don’t you remember that the pear tree in the yard is to be stripped today? You must hurry if you want to be there.»

Martin’s mother had blue eyes and brown hair, and at that time the glance of her eyes was still bright and smiling. She laid the shirt on the bed, nodded to him, and went out.

Maria was Martin’s big sister. She was nine. She went to school and already knew what many things were in French.

But Martin still had slumber in his eyes and the medley of the dream in his head, so that he couldn’t bring himself to get up.

The curtain was drawn back, and the sun shone straight into the room. The door to the kitchen stood ajar. Lotta was laughing at the kitchen window while she chatted with some one; it was sure to be Heggbom, the porter. Finally Heggbom began to sing down in the yard with his rummy voice.

«If I had King Solomon’s treasure chest With money in heaps and masses, I’d off to Turkey and never I’d rest Till I’d bought me a hundred lasses.»

«What would you do with them all,» inquired Lotta; «you that can’t manage even your own wife?»

Martin couldn’t hear what Heggbom answered, but Lotta began to laugh with all her lungs. «Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?» she said.

Now the porter’s wife had come into the yard, it sounded as if she was throwing out a tub of dish-water. With that she began to scold Heggbom, and Lotta as well. But Lotta only laughed and slammed the window.

Martin lay half awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. There was a crack that was just like Mrs. Heggbom if one looked at it right.

The clock struck nine in the neighboring church, and when it had stopped striking, the clock in the hall began. Martin jumped out of bed and ran to the window to see if the pears were still on the tree.

* * * * *

The pear tree in the yard was beloved by the children and cats. It was old and large, and many of its boughs were already dry and dead, but the others still furnished blossoms and greenery every spring and fruit every autumn.

Heggbom’s boys were sitting up in the tree, throwing down pears after having first stuffed their pockets full, while below the other children fought for every pear that fell from the tree. In the midst of the troop stood Mrs. Lundgren, broad of build and loud of voice, trying to enforce a fair distribution, but no one paid any attention to her. A little way off stood little Ida Dupont, with great eyes, her hands behind her back, not venturing into the turmoil. Mrs. Lundgren did not get any pears for her because she was ill-disposed toward Mr. Dupont, who was a violinist in the royal orchestra.

Martin became eager; he threw on his clothes in a hurry and came down by the steps.

Lotta screamed after him, «Aren’t you going to wash and comb your hair before----»

But Martin was in the yard by this time. Mrs. Lundgren at once took him under her protection.

«Throw down a pear to Martin, John. Hold up your cap, little boy, and you shall have a pear.»

A pear fell into the cap. But now Martin couldn’t find his penknife to peel the pear.

«Give me the pear; I’ll peel it for you,» said Mrs. Lundgren.

With that she took the pear, bit into it with her big yellow teeth, and tore off a piece of the skin. Martin opened his eyes very wide and grew red in the face. Now he didn’t want to have any pear at all.

Mr. Dupont lay at his window in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe, with a red skull-cap on his head. He now leaned out and laughed. Mrs. Lundgren got angry.

«That’s a spoiled child,» she said.

John now triumphantly held up the last pear, and the children hurrahed and shouted, but he stuffed it into his trousers pocket. But then Willie found still another, and this was the very last. He caught sight of Ida Dupont standing with tears in her eyes over by the wall, and at that he gallantly tossed his pear into her apron. Then there was another hurrah; the pear tree was stripped.

Now Mrs. Heggbom came out:

«Lord in heaven what a clatter, and Heggbom lying at his death! Down out of the tree with you, you little ragamuffins!»

Heggbom had been sick in bed awhile ago, and his wife’s imagination often turned back to that comparatively happy time.

The boys had come down from the tree. Their mother took John by the hair and Willie by the ear to lead them in. But Mrs. Lundgren felt somewhat huffed; she had to a certain extent presided over the tumult. Furthermore, she enjoyed scolding and therefore did not miss the opportunity of showing Mrs. Heggbom with some sharpness the unsuitability of making such a disturbance. The latter let go her boys so as to set her arms akimbo, and there was a big set-to. Listeners streamed up, and all the kitchen windows were opened wide.

At last a voice broke through the quarreling: «Sh! The Secretary!»

Everything became quiet; Secretary Oldhusen had the largest floor and was the finest tenant of the house. He was dressed in a long tight-fitting frock coat and carried under his arm a worn leather portfolio. When he had come down the steps he stood still and took a pinch of snuff. Thereupon he walked slowly out through the gate with the preoccupied and troubled mien of a statesman.

Martin and Ida slipped out into the street hand in hand. They ventured on for a few steps beyond the gate, then they stood in the street and blinked at the sun.

The street was lined with wooden houses and tile roofs and green trees. The house where Martin lived was the only large stone house on the street. Long Row, diagonally across from it, lay in shadow; a low, dirt-gray range of houses. Only really poor people lived there, Martin’s mother said. Only scum, said Mrs. Lundgren. At the dye-house a little farther down the street there was no hurrying; the dyer stood at his gate in slippers and white linen jacket and chatted with his wife in the warehouse. Even outside the corner tavern things were quiet. A brewery wagon had stopped in front of it, and the horse stood with his forefeet tied, eating oats out of a nosebag that hung on his muzzle.

The clock in the near-by church struck ten.

Ida pointed down the street. «There comes the old goat woman.»

The goat woman came with her two goats; one she led with a cord, the other was free. The Secretary’s little granddaughter had whooping-cough and drank goat’s milk.

«Yes, and there comes the ragman.»

The ragman sidled in through the gate with his pack on his back and his greasy stick. People said he had seen better days.

Two drunken men came out of the tavern and reeled along the street arm in arm. A policeman in white linen trousers walked up and down, a copy of the _Fatherland_ sticking out of his hip pocket. A flock of chickens trailed out from the yard of Long Row, the cock at their head. The policeman stopped, took half a roll out of his pocket, and began to feed them.

«What shall we do?» asked Ida.

«I don’t know,» replied Martin.

He looked very much at a loss.

«Would you like to have my pear?»

Ida took the pear out of her pocket and held it under Martin’s nose. It looked very tempting.

«We can share,» proposed Martin.

«Yes, that’s so, we can share.»

«But I have no knife to cut it with.»

«That doesn’t matter. You bite first and then I will.»

Martin bit, and Ida bit. Martin forgot he had wanted the pear peeled.

Now somebody called for Martin, and the next moment grandmother came out and took him by the hand.

«What in Heaven’s name are you thinking of today? Aren’t you going to comb your hair and wash and eat your breakfast? The mischief’s in the boy.»

Grandmother was pretending to be cross, but Martin only laughed.

In the gateway they met Heggbom; he was walking a bit unsteadily. He avoided them by a long tack and removed his cap very politely while he spluttered away at his song:

«I’d off to Turkey and never I’d rest Till I’d bought me a hundred lasses.»

The yard had grown quiet. Mrs. Heggbom’s fat red cat lay on the ash barrel purring with half-closed eyes, and below the rats stole in and out.

--III--

On a gray October morning Martin received permission from his mother to go down and play with Ida Dupont.

Mr. Dupont had two small rooms, one flight up. At this time of day he was away at rehearsal, so Martin and Ida were alone.

It was a dark and somber day. The inner room lay in semi-twilight, with a high Venetian blind in front of the window. When one pushed aside a corner of the blind, one could see between two gray house gables a part of the great black church cupola. «Bing bong!» went the bells.

Ida showed Martin a peep-show box with tinted pictures. There were white castles and gardens with colored lanterns in long gleaming rows, yellow and red and blue. There were strange cities with churches and bridges, and steamboats and big ships on a wide river. And there were halls illuminated with radiant candelabra, but what looked like lights were just little holes made with pins. It all looked so big and alive when one saw it in the box. It almost moved; there was surely something magical about it.

«I got that from mamma,» declared Ida.

«But where is your mamma?»

«She’s away.»

Martin looked surprised.

«How--away?»

«She has gone off with a strange gentleman. But sometimes she writes me letters that papa reads to me, and sometimes I get pretty things from her that she sends.»

Martin became very inquisitive. He wanted to learn more but didn’t know just how he ought to ask.

However, Ida now caught Martin by both shoulders and looked very impressive.

«Do you know what we’ll do now?» she asked. «We’ll dress up.»

She pulled out a bureau drawer and began to take out red bodices of satin, silk, and rep with a multitude of ribbons and rosettes; silk gloves, silk stockings, and long veils of lace--pink, blue, and white.