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

“Spegel is a great name, and his words are not like the words of the Pharisees. We all know that he wrote the magnificent psalm, ‘The wailing cries are silent,’ a psalm which has never been equalled. Your health, Mr. Falk! I am glad to hear that you are identifying yourself with the work of such a man.”

Lundell discovered that his glass was empty.

“I think I must have another half-pint!”

Two thoughts were humming in Falk’s brain: “The fellow is drinking neat brandy” and “How did he get to know about Spegel?” A suspicion illuminated his mind like a flash of lightning, but he pretended to know nothing, and merely said: “Your health, Mr. Lundell!”

The unpleasant explanation which seemed bound to follow was avoided by the sudden entrance of Olle. It was Olle, but more rugged than before, dirtier than before and, to judge from his appearance, lamer than before. His hips stood out beneath his coat like bowsprits; a single button kept his coat together close above his first rib. But he was in good spirits and laughed on seeing so much food and drink on the table. To Sellén’s horror he began to report on the success of his mission, all the time divesting himself of his acquisitions. He had really been arrested by the police.

“Here are the tickets!”

He handed Sellén two green pawn-tickets across the table, which Sellén instantly converted into a paper pellet.

He had been taken to the police station. He pointed to his coat, the collar of which was missing. There he was asked for his name. His name was, of course, assumed! There existed no such name as Montanus! His native place? Västmanland! Again a false statement! The inspector was a native of that province and knew his countrymen. His age? Twenty-eight years! That was a lie; he must be at least forty. His domicile? Lill-Jans! Another lie; nobody but a gardener lived there. His profession? Artist! That also was a lie: for he looked like a dock labourer.

“Here’s your paint, four tubes! Better look at them carefully!”

His parcel had been opened and, in the process, one of the sheets had been torn.

“Therefore I only got one and twopence halfpenny for both. You’ll see that I’m right if you’ll look at the ticket.”

The next question was where he had stolen the things? Olle had replied that he had not stolen them; then the inspector drew his attention to the fact that he had not been asked whether he had stolen them, but where he had stolen them? Where? where? where?

“Here’s your change, twopence halfpenny; I’ve kept nothing back.”

Then the evidence was taken down and the stolen goods⁠—which had been sealed with three seals⁠—were described. In vain had Olle protested, in vain had he appealed to their sense of justice and humanity; the only result of his protestations was a suggestion made by the constable to place on record that the prisoner⁠—he was already regarded in the light of a prisoner⁠—was heavily intoxicated; the suggestion was acted upon, but the word heavily was omitted. After the inspector had repeatedly urged the constable to try and remember whether the prisoner had offered resistance at his arrest, and the constable had declared that he could not take his oath on it⁠—it would have been a very serious matter for the prisoner looked a desperate character⁠—but it had appeared to him that he had tried to resist by taking refuge in a doorway the latter statement was placed on record.

Then a report was drawn up, and Olle was ordered to sign it. It ran as follows:

A male individual of sinister and forbidding appearance was found slinking along the row of houses in Northland Street, carrying a suspicious-looking parcel in his hand. On his arrest he was dressed in a green frock-coat⁠—he wore no waistcoat⁠—blue serge trousers, a shirt with the initials P. L. (which clearly proves that either the shirt was stolen or that he had given a wrong name), woollen stockings with grey edges, and a felt hat with a cock’s feather. Prisoner gave the assumed name of Olle Montanus, falsely deposed that his people were peasants in Västmanland and that he was an artist, domiciled at Lill-Jans, obviously an invention. On being arrested he tried to offer resistance by taking refuge in a doorway. Then followed a minute description of the contents of the parcel.

As Olle refused to admit the correctness of this report, a telegram was sent to the prison, and a conveyance appeared to fetch Olle, the bundle, and a constable.

As they were turning into Mint Street, Olle caught sight of Per Illson, a member of Parliament and a countryman of his. He called to him, and Per Illson proved that the report was wrong. Olle was released and his bundle was restored to him. And now he had come to join them and⁠—

“Here are your French rolls! There are only five of them, for I’ve eaten one. And here’s the beer!”

He produced five French rolls from his coat pockets, laid them on the table, and placed two bottles of beer, which he pulled out of his trousers pockets, by the side of them, after which his figure resumed its usual disproportions.

“Falk, old chap, you must excuse Olle; he’s not used to smart society. Put the French rolls back into your pockets, Olle! What will you be up to next?” said Sellén disapprovingly.

Olle obeyed.

Lundell refused to have the tray taken away, although he had cleared the dishes so thoroughly that it would have been impossible to say what they had contained; every now and then he seized the brandy bottle, absentmindedly, and poured himself out half a glass. Occasionally he stood up or turned round in his chair to “see what the band was playing.” On those occasions Sellén kept a close eye on him.

At last Rehnhjelm arrived. He had obviously been drinking; he sat down silently, his eyes seeking an object on which they could rest while he listened to Lundell’s exhortations. Finally his