Oxygen and Aromasia

by Claës Lundin

translated by Bertil Falk

Chapter 11, part 1
appears in this issue.

Chapter 11: A Ball Game at Rydberg’s Square

part 2 of 2

“No, in that way, definitely not, but neither are we worse. If the relationship between man and woman now seems to have a bigger influence in public life, then it’s nevertheless nothing new. We women are now constrained to appear openly, and society doesn’t suffer because of that.

“The influence that woman in all times have tried to achieve could in the past only be obtained through intrigues on the sly, through trickery and all sorts of deceit. To be true, things like that still happen, but they’re counteracted to a great extent by the publicity that throws its light even on the women’s acts... Don’t be weak, my child, and above all, don’t believe that privation should be the duty of our sex.”

Aromasia did not seem to listen to the old woman’s words with her usual attention. Her eyes were fixed upon the ballplayers who had begun another game. It seemed to attract the young girl’s attention to a higher degree than the former game.

The direction of Aromasia’s gaze was followed by Aunt Vera, who after some silence exclaimed, “Oh, it’s Oxygen, who has joined in the game! He’s an excellent ball-thrower. Look, how they follow his strikes with rapt attention.”

The weather-manufacturer was skillful in all kinds of physical training, and he had often won prizes on the playing fields of Stockholm, where they especially valued his great ability to play ball. This day, it seemed that he wanted to show himself even more skillful than usual, and he made some really surprising strikes while the cheers of his fellow-players and the spectators grew.

“That Warm-Blasius is a quick man,” one spectator said.

“As acclimatized when it comes to throwing as he is good at speaking at election meetings,” someone else uttered.

“I heard him yesterday. His mechanics are really surprising.”

“His election is probably determined.”

“Not entirely, I would say.”

“Who’s that strange figure?”

“It seems to be Apollonides, the poetry-mechanist. But how is he dressed?”

Apollonides had stepped forward among the ball-throwers and proposed to clash swords with Oxygen himself, who seemed to be the most skillful of all players. In order to stand out from all the others, Apollonides was clad in a dress, which was bound to attract attention. He had had it made after some old drawings, which probably were many centuries old.

He wore a tight-fitting black coat that was abruptly cut off in the front. Long tails fell from his back and touched the hollows of his knees. The pants were similarly tight-fitting, and they went all the way down to the ankles.

“Can you imagine a more uncomfortable dress!” was heard from sides of the crowd. “And he intends to play ball in that outfit! It’s madness!”

The neck of the poet was muffled up with a piece of white stuff and on his head he wore a tall, black, shining silk hat that raised much laughter.

“I’ve seen that dress at the theater,” someone remarked, “but I could never believe that any sane person would appear in it in public.”

“That’s what they called evening dress five hundred years ago,” an archaeologist explained. “That kind of clothing was used by our forefathers until they learned that they it was both ridiculous and uncomfortable.”

Apollonides, however, seemed to be proud of his attire and found pleasure from attention he attracted. It was difficult in this day and age to attract attention. The conformity of people’s clothes was in line with equality when it came to social position, and nobody willingly thought of standing out from the crowd. Only those who made the most innovations and, more particularly, those who innovated new means of general improvement and progress that could get people to talk about and regard them. If the invention turned out to be less than useful, the attention soon ceased.

Dressing up as Apollonides did could only be ridiculed. That seemed to trouble him very little. On the contrary, he seemed to be flattered by the laughter he heard as he walked around among the people, raising his top hat to greet his acquaintances.

“You don’t know what such a dress accomplished in the past,” he said, as he stopped in front of Aunt Vera and Aromasia, made a deep bow, bared his head and, accompanied by a burst of laughter from the surrounding people, lowered his headgear towards the ground.

He presumed that fair Aromasia would not deny his being her knight and said that he ventured to compete in her honor with the most distinguished warrior of the ball game.

“Aromasia would very likely herself enter into such a competition,” the old woman declared, but the young artist only smiled without saying anything.

“That has no meaning in our time,” Aunt Vera continued. “Nowadays women plead their cause and fight their own battles.”

“Our romantic poetry-machinist has knowledge of history,” said the archeologist, who had heard Apollonides statement. “He is dressed like a sociable person of five hundred years ago, but wants to act like a knight of more than one thousand years ago.”

Apollonides did not allow the remarks to affect him. He took Aromasia’s silence for approval, made another deep bow, lowered his headgear even closer to the ground, and then stepped forward to the midst of the square, exclaiming, “I will hit my ball for fair Aromasia, and I challenge the ball-thrower, who has shown himself to be the most skillful one.”

Oxygen regarded him with indignant eyes, but ultimately he seemed to find the scene ridiculous and laughing he took up the gauntlet.

“The poet is as bold as he is ridiculous,” people said, but then places were arranged for the two combatants and the competition began.

Apollonides was did not lack skill as a ball-thrower and even though his uncomfortable dress obviously troubled him, he was nevertheless neck and neck with his strong opponent for a long time. People called out cheers and words of encouragement to him and had almost forgotten his initial ridiculous appearance.

Aromasia watched the game closely and did not listen to her old kinswoman’s many remarks about Apollonides’ improper behavior. As her knight made a nice throw, her eyes seemed to show him a thankful assent, but when his opponent made an even better pitch, her eyes did shine less encouragingly.

“For whom does she really feel sympathy?” the old woman said to herself. “Which one does she want to be victorious? Indeed, I don’t understand her.”

Apollonides’ arm became weaker. The tight-fitting dress denied him more effort. His throwing became increasingly weaker, and he missed the target. He no longer heard cheers from the surrounding people, neither did he get any encouragement. The cheers and the encouragement went only to his opponent.

At last, shouts of joy were raised. Oxygen had totally defeated his rival.

“Long live Warm-Blasius!” resounded across the square.

Now they laughed at Apollonides again. They laughed violently when they saw how badly battered his dress was. The tight-fitting coat had come apart at the seams and was torn to rags. One of the tails was torn off. His trousers were almost in an even worse condition. The tall headgear had gotten many dents and looked extraordinarily ludicrous. It was impossible to suppress a desire to laugh when seeing this sorry sight.

“He looks like a drunken rowdy of five hundred years ago,” the archeologist said.

“Long live Warm-Blasius!” was again heard.

“He’ll most certainly be elected,” people said. “Almost all the electors of Majorna are here.”

As the competition ended with a unsurpassable throw by Oxygen, Aunt Vera thought that she saw a flash of joy in the eyes of Aromasia, but soon after the artist rushed to Apollonides, grasped his hand and said a few kind words.

The poet felt happiness, smiled in his rags, bowed and kissed Aromasias’ hand. That mark of courtesy raised more laughter among the crowd.

“Have you seen? The fool kissed the woman’s hand! How ridiculous!”

“He must be out of his mind.”

Blushing, Aromasia draw back her hand, grasped Aunt Vera’s arm and left the square.

Oxygen directed a glance at her that, in the language of old novels, would have been called ardent. But the ardor went away, and Oxygen exclaimed with melancholy, “Why is she such an old-fashioned woman?”

To be continued...