The Red Room, August Strindberg [the mitten read aloud txt] 📗

likely every moment to chance on a friend. The band was tolerated because it did not stop conversation, but rather stimulated it, and gradually it became as much a component of the Stockholm evening diet, as punch and tobacco.

In this way Berns’ Salon became the bachelors’ club of all Stockholm. Every circle had its special corner; the colonists of Lill-Jans had usurped the inner chess room, usually called the Red Room on account of its red furniture and for the sake of brevity. It was a safe meeting-ground even if during the whole day the members had been scattered like chaff. When times were hard and funds had to be raised at any cost, regular raids were made from this spot round the room. A chain was formed: two members skirmished in the galleries, and two others attacked the room lengthways. One might have said they dredged the room with a ground-net, and they rarely dredged in vain, for there was a constant flow of new arrivals during the evening.

Tonight, however, these efforts were not required; Sellén, calmly and proudly, sat down on the red sofa in the background. After having acted a little farce on the subject of what they were going to drink, they came to the conclusion that they must have something to eat first. They were starting the “sexa,” and Falk was beginning to feel a return of his strength, when a long shadow fell across their table. Before them stood Ygberg, as pale and emaciated as ever. Sellén, who was in funds tonight, and under those circumstances invariably courteous and kindhearted, pressed him to have dinner with them, and Falk seconded the invitation. Ygberg hesitated while examining the contents of the dishes and calculating whether his hunger would be satisfied or only half-satisfied.

“You wield a stinging pen, Mr. Falk,” he said, in order to deflect the attention from the raids which his fork was making on the tray.

“How? What do you mean?” asked Falk flushing; he did not know that anybody had made the acquaintance of his pen.

“The article has created a sensation.”

“What article? I don’t understand.”

“The correspondence in the People’s Flag on the Board of Payment of Employees’ Salaries.”

“I didn’t write it.”

“But the Board is convinced that you did. I just met a member who’s a friend of mine; he mentioned you as the author; I understood that the resentment was fierce.”

“Indeed?”

Falk felt that he was half to blame for it; he realized now what the notes were which Struve had been making on that evening on Moses Height. But Struve had merely reported what he, Falk, had said. He was responsible for his statements and must stand by them even at the risk of being considered a scandalmonger. Retreat was impossible; he realized that he must go on.

“Very well,” he said, “I am the instigator of the article. But let us talk of something else! What do you think of Ulrica Eleonora? Isn’t she an interesting character? Or what is your opinion of the Maritime Insurance Company Triton? Or Haquin Spegel?”

“Ulrica Eleonora is the most interesting character in the whole history of Sweden,” answered Ygberg gravely; “I’ve just had an order to write an essay on her.”

“From Smith?” asked Falk.

“Yes; but how do you know?”

“I’ve returned the block this afternoon.”

“It’s wrong to refuse work. You’ll repent it! Believe me.”

A hectic flush crimsoned Falk’s cheeks; he spoke feverishly. Sellén sat quietly on the sofa, smoking. He paid more attention to the band than to the conversation, which did not interest him because he did not understand it. From his sofa corner he could see through the two open doors leading to the south gallery, and catch a glimpse of the north gallery. In spite of the dense cloud of smoke which hung above the pit between the two galleries, he could distinguish the faces on the other side. Suddenly his attention was caught by something in the distance. He clutched Falk’s arm.

“The sly-boots! Look behind the left curtain!”

“Lundell!”

“Just so! He’s looking for a Magdalene! See! He’s talking to her now! What a beautiful girl!”

Falk blushed, a fact which did not escape Sellén.

“Does he come here for his models?” he asked surprised.

“Well, where else should he go to? He can’t find them in the dark.”

A moment afterwards Lundell joined them; Sellén greeted him with a patronizing nod, the significance of which did not seem to be lost on the newcomer. He bowed to Falk with more than his usual politeness, and expressed his astonishment at Ygberg’s presence in disparaging words. Ygberg, carefully observing him, seized the opportunity to ask him what he would like to eat. Lundell opened his eyes; he seemed to have fallen among magnates. He felt happy; a gentle, philanthropic mood took possession of him, and after ordering a hot supper, he felt constrained to give expression to his emotion. It was obvious that he wanted to say something to Falk, but it was difficult to find an opening. The band was playing “Hear us, Sweden!” and a moment afterwards “A Stronghold is our God.”

Falk called for more drink.

“I wonder whether you admire this fine old hymn as much as I do, Mr. Falk?” began Lundell.

Falk, who was not conscious of admiring any one hymn more than another, asked him to have some punch. Lundell had misgivings; he did not know whether he could venture. He thought he had better have some more supper first; he was not strong enough to drink. He tried to prove it, after his third liqueur, by a short but violent attack of coughing.

“The Torch of Reconciliation is a splendid name,” he said presently; “it proves at the same time the deep, religious need of atonement, and the light which came into the world when the miracle happened which has always given offence to the proud in spirit.”

He swallowed a meat ball while carefully studying the effect of his remark⁠—and felt anything but flattered when he saw three blank faces staring at him, expressing nothing